Tempestuous
by Guixi
Summary: Wild, Unrestrained, Passionate. Words used to describe both a hurricane and Lena Oxton, as defined by Jesse McCree. If his commander has anything to say about it, then 'off-limits' will be added to his definition, as well. [Late Golden Age era, Jesse/Lena/Gabriel.] [DISCONTINUED]
1. Chapter 1

_**Note** : As I didn't really want to oversaturate my other collection (as it's supposed to be relatively unconnected happenings), I decided to expand upon this idea in it's own story. I'm not sure how long it'll go, but it explores the relationship between Gabriel and the 'Overwatch Generation' of agents, namely Tracer and McCree. Please note this deals heavily with AU and personal headcanons, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it. _

* * *

"Yield!"

The offending arm that wrapped around his neck tightened in finality, before going slack and giving him the privilege to breathe. Greedily, he gulped the air, the lack of oxygen outweighing the aching pain that seared at his neck and spread up to the back of his head. It didn't help that the weight pressed down on his back refused to let up, and hard bone ground into his already bruised spine, adding insult to injury.

The winning male was none other than Gabriel Reyes, commander of the covet operations known only as Blackwatch, though as far as the public was concerned, no such branch existed and he was merely another agent wearing the peacekeeper's call sign. Coal-coloured eyes regarded his _supposed_ protégé with disdain, chapped lips curling just enough to show the peek of pearly whites.

"You're showing me up, McCree. I thought you were more than the thug I picked up off the streets." Reyes spat, finally picking himself off of his student and moving towards the edge of the arena, swiping his water bottle and taking a much needed swig, savouring the cold liquid that ran down his throat after a session.

After all, Gabriel was going to make sure every last soldier under his command could fend for themselves in any situation – adapt to any spontaneous event. There was more to being a good fighter than knowing how to aim and shoot a gun in his books, thus he made it mandatory for hand-to-hand combat exercise alongside the regime of laps, combat simulations and strategy protocol.

Most of which happened within the gym of Overwatch's main headquarters, stationed in Switzerland. It contained everything they could ever need: treadmills, weights, dedicated wrestling arenas, and so forth. There were various soldiers and agents making use of the equipment, though some gathered to watch the training session between the Blackwatch commander and one of his own.

The fallen man, Jesse McCree, grumbled something indiscernible, blowing the sweat-drenched locks out of his eyes, hands splayed on the cushioned mat to assist himself standing up, before his commander's hand came into view. He accepted it graciously, and was hauled up back to his feet, stumbling a bit as the rush of wind returned to him. He had the (dis)pleasure of training with Reyes. While some may claim that to be an honour, his back would highly protest that it was not.

It hadn't been too long since he had been quote _'rescued'_ from the Deadlock Gang – and yes, he snickered every time the Overwatch commander stated as such – he supposed that the rigorous training and the burn he felt inside was better than rotting in some out of sight prison for the rest of his days. Jesse reminded himself to be grateful of Reyes accepting the responsibility of him, because had he not spoken up, he doubted he'd of gotten the choice in the first place.

"I prefer ' _vigilante given a second chance.'_ " he ruefully stated, then sobered up the moment Gabriel shot him a dirty look, hands coming up in an innocent gesture of peace. " – No points for trying?"

"There won't be points to have if you're dead." the darker skinned American pointed out, hailing over one of the meandering personnel. They understood his signal, and approached the ring with a clean, dry towel. Gabriel took it, throwing it over his shoulders while wiping away any of his body's perspiration. Jesse was only mildly envious; the westerner was utterly soaked, comparatively.

"You're hesitating." It came out more of a statement than anything. The commander continued on swiftly, throwing a hardened, scrutinizing look to his student. "Your enemies won't in the battlefield, and neither should you."

It took a moderate amount of willpower for the younger man not to flinch under such an intense gaze, but Reyes was not the meanest son of a gun he'd ever dealt with – his former 'buddies' were quite a colourful cast of lowlife degenerates, some with faces only a mother could love. Yet, he held a point – Jesse was dithering, and all it had given him were painful reminders. His tactic of duelling was considerably dishonourable, and thought such a thing would be frowned upon.

"I thought since I've gone legit I can't bring my brass knuckles and flash bangs." he murmured, offering his commander a lopsided grin. Not to mention (and he wouldn't) that fighting his mentor was not the easiest thing to do personally. McCree once was a wanted man, had been called an outlaw – but he was still human, and he had a heart.

He watched Gabriel's eyes roll skywards, raising a hand briefly to pinch his nose and mutter something under his breath, then made a gesture for him to fetch them. It was just as well, because during the fight, he had lost the elastic band used to tie up his hair and it was becoming quite a rat's nest and obscuring his vision.

Jesse dipped his head, hauling himself over the ropes, heading to the lockers. It didn't take long to locate his, as it was topped off with his wide brimmed hat. He popped it open, taking a moment to grab his own towel and dry off the best he can, ruffling it through his usually silken locks, retrieving another band to bunch his long hair into a bun, followed by gathering the knuckleduster and grenades.

Although, when he returned, _she_ was there.

She would've looked like any other ordinary agent, clad in modest blue shorts and simple white t-shirt, had it not been for the ugly device encased around her chest like it was on display, soft blue orb permanently shining with nothing but a quiet hum emitting from the accelerator. Little did _he_ know she was not just an ordinary agent.

Lena Oxton leaned on the ropes, arms folded and glossy lips pulled wide to reveal a brilliant smile, laughter tinkling like chimes at something the cowboy missed, though he couldn't imagine much of what Gabriel said could've been _charming_. She curled one of her legs back, tip of the trainer tapping against the floor in absent minded habit, fingers still animating to her words even when her hands remained still and clamped on the supporting ropes.

Even more surprising, was his commander's cadence; voice low enough so that only she could hear and the features of his face not constantly depressed into a scowl. He seemed to have loosened up a little – casual, even, reclining on the metal post that acted as part of the arena's barrier and head regarding her lightly.

Reyes caught sight of McCree from the corner of his eye, stopping his talk and stepping closer to Lena, hand coming to rest strongly on her shoulder as the cowboy cautiously walked towards them, feeling like he had just interrupted something.

"This is the stray I was telling you about, Tracer." the darker skinned man teased; smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Boy couldn't hit a right hook even if I showed it him."

Gingerly, McCree touched his cheek where plenty of duels had the older man land such a blow.

"You need to work on your aim then, sir." impishly Lena insinuated, and where such a comment would've landed any soldier under his command punishment, it only caused him to chuckle hoarsely. Jesse didn't really have much time to dwell on that as the woman stepped up to him, exuberant and like an exploding star wrapped up in a single, five foot four inch package. He looked at her hand strangely, before it dawned on him and a large, dashing grin took his face, calloused, tanned hand enveloping her smaller, slimmer one.

"Well no wonder it's been gloomy outside, you've taken all the sunshine for yourself, darlin'!" McCree shook her hand firmly to the sound of her boisterous laughter – and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't infectious, because he too was chuckling deep in his throat; the sound like a low rumbling bass. It was easy for him to fall back into his natural drawl and play the flirt, but judging from the look in her liquid brown hues, she knew the game well enough.

"Oh, stop it, love." she winked, smacking him gently on the arm in rapport. They seemed to connect quite well, both of them extroverted souls that found it easy to mingle. She continued seamlessly.

"If the _increasingly-frowning-as-we-speak_ commander hasn't introduced me yet, well, first I'd be hurt, and secondly, the names Lena Oxton – and really, duckie, you know your face will stay like that permanently if you don't stop."

Gabriel indeed held a sour look, watching the interaction unfold before him and scoffed quietly. He perked an eyebrow when Lena's head turned to appraise him. Jesse cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him and unfortunately gaining the older man's one as well, as he offered an uneasy smile. He didn't know the extent of their familiarity, though from what he made of the Overwatch agent, she seemed to note everyone as a good friend.

"I guess you know about me, darlin'." he said, hand slipping away from hers and finding himself missing the warmth it radiated. "I hope the commander's said nothing but good things."

"Oh, yes. Thug, lowlife, stray.." she listed off on her fingers, pausing as she tried to recall, chocolate brown eyes looking up to the ceiling in faux thought.

"Vandal," offered Gabriel, though his gravelly tone lacked the levity that the light, chiming one Tracer's held. She snapped her fingers in affirmation, devilish smirk warping her lips at Jesse's sheepish expression. Such names were expected, as they were true to some extent, when he was a criminal. He had long since desensitized to the words, especially given the fact that most of the time it left the older man's mouth, whom was widely and infamously known that his social skills fared worse than his combat expertise.

"Only the best." McCree responded contritely.

It was only now that Lena looked one over the westerner, taking in his rugged appearance offset by the standard Blackwatch exercise uniform, face pinched with mild exhaustion and his exposed arms reddened in some areas where he had deflected some blows. She realised she likely had interrupted something, voicing as such;

"I hope I haven't stopped your training -"

"Not at all. I issued a five minute break for my boy to gather some additional items." assured Gabriel quickly, cowing McCree into silence with presence alone – the younger American made a mental correction that his commander was hastily outdoing the meaner members of the Deadlock Gang. "You're welcome to watch. I'm sure it'll prove informative."

"As much as I appreciate the offer to watch two sweaty men grapple and wrestle each other for dominance," started Tracer, both brows shooting up to the wild, untamed region that was her hair, "I have a date with a treadmill, loves."

Reyes bobbed his head, surveying his student waving her off as he lacked a hat to tip in respect. As he did so, a calculated thought crossed his mind, slow smirk sneaking across his mouth to match it, which wasn't a pleasant sight. Before she went to far, his fingers curled around her elbow, tugging her to halt, much to her confusion.

"Do me a favour and have this fight with my boy." he said.

"What?" responded the dual voice of the two in question; hers pitched higher in puzzlement, with Jesse's suspiciously flat. The westerner gave a sidelong glance to his new impromptu combat partner, a sinking feeling dwelling in his gut as the last thing he wanted the entire gym to witness was him beating up a girl who clearly did not share his weight class, though he dispelled such thoughts. Sure, she was tiny and a sprite of a thing, but looks were deceiving, and underestimating her like that was detrimental to her as an agent.

"I want to watch him from the sidelines. Maybe there's something I'm missing being too up close." reasoned Gabriel, holding the rope up invitingly with a sweeping gesture. Tracer truly hesitated for a moment, offering McCree an apologetic look for some reason before nodding uncertainly. She didn't really want to participate in the duel, but found it hard to deny the Blackwatch commander's innocent and well-reasoned request.

"Eh, sure, love. But I'm so calling in that favour one day." With Reyes' helping hand, she entered the ring. Jesse followed suit, though was unassisted by his commander, deigning to put the knuckleduster and flash bangs onto the table, only for him to be stopped. There was only one thing the older man said as he passed.

"Don't hesitate." It sounded more like a warning than a reminder. Then, louder, he said. "I'll ref. Ready in five."

Warily, the younger American slid the brass metal over his knuckles, flexing his fingers to the familiar weight, though the nausea that waved over him only grew tenfold. It wasn't like it was some dirty secret, because the woman before him could easily see his so called ' _additional items',_ and made no noise about it. In fact, her eyes shone with determination, her smirk challenging and arrogant. It only served to make him feel worse.

The countdown was drowned out as his attention was focused on other things, such as taking in account her stance. Her fists were clenched, drawn up to her chest with her feet adequately spaced. It seemed like a typical power stance, which meant that her punches should be predictable, compared to his style – something akin to _backyard brawling._ At the very least, it would be different than the matches with Gabriel; she looked far more agile and flexible than the older, bulkier man.

McCree crouched slightly, muscles wiry with tension and fingers itching. Oddly, he was looking forward to the match – compared to his commander, he figured she was the type to be a good sport.

"Begin!"

The first thing Jesse grasped about Lena, was that she was _fast._ She had no issue ducking, dodging and weaving out of his swift jabs, her feet light as she stepped to avoid a sweeping kick aimed to knock her down. To his advantage, she was on the defensive, avoiding his blows and wearing on his stamina than playing to his endurance and strength as Gabriel did.

"Seems like you're having a hard time landing the mark, love." she mused, winking. "You want me to slow down?"

He managed to connect a solid hook that she brought up her arms to deflect, but he felt her weight waver under it. To her credit, she steadfastly held her position. Jesse leaned his face closer tauntingly, deep drawl dipping lower.

"Oh, absolutely _not_ , darlin'. I love a good challenge."

He pulled away after a good start, recovering his energy as they circled around the ring slowly, their gazes never faltering, tenseness pervading the air. She darted forward, and he expected a mid-body punch, but was sorely mistaken when she advanced by kicking in front, perfectly followed by a jab to his jaw that he was unprepared for. Once on the offensive, Lena did not stop, twisting around and utilizing her back leg to add to the assault.

That was the second thing he became aware of (aside from the pain emanating from his jaw): she fought like a clean kick boxer. He slipped into the groove of the combat, finding the opportunity to counter and swiftly flip the tables to his advantage, letting go of his hesitation. It did come back to bite him in the arse when a particularly vicious hit with his adorned knuckles earned her a busted lip.

Gabriel, spectating the fight, nodded to himself approvingly. Yet his face fell slightly when he didn't get the reaction he was after – Lena merely rubbed the drawn blood with her thumb, wiped it onto her shirt and forced McCree to distance away from her when she performed an admirable, arcing crescent kick, the unorthodox move genuinely surprising the dirty fighter. The blow had only served to fuel her competitive fire; the need to win outweighing the stinging cut.

"Loser buys the other a drink?" he slipped in.

"You're on."

He wisely didn't give her time to regain her footing, because he pounced forward, arms wrapping around her waist and forcing her down to the cushy mat in a rough tackle. They rolled, wrestling until Jesse won the power struggle, victoriously pinning her below with a sordid smirk. She shared it, until she vanished out from under him in a dazzling show of blue light.

Wait, _what?_

He blinked rapidly, jerking his head up to see her inspecting her nails, reclining back against the rope, no cuts or bruises to speak of. That wasn't right – she was right there, he, he _felt_ her. Jokingly, she used his bafflement to point her index finger and thumb to his forehead, mimicking an explosion noise.

"Boom, you're dead."

Reyes gave a gesture that signalled the end of the match, brows furrowed. His expectations were surpassed, though given the wild card status he attributed to her, he shouldn't be all that surprised. He resisted shaking his head, then spoke clearly.

"Nicely done, Oxton, even if your accelerator usage was a technical foul." he stated. "Match goes to McCree. I've seen enough to know what to work on next time, at least – and the two of you better check up with Mercy before leaving, too. She'll have my head, otherwise."

"Nothing is scarier than an angry doctor." agreed Tracer, helping McCree up to his feet, to which he felt Déjà vu towards. "But I protest at that verdict, love! I won. I mean, you didn't set any rules."

"Oh no, you're not getting out of buying me a drink that easy, little lassie." huffed Jesse. "Besides, if not that, let me buy _you_ one. Least I could do."

"You kids behave," warned Gabriel, gathering his water bottle and regaling the younger, tanned American with a pointed look, before offering a curt, polite nod to the worn out woman. "Make sure he actually gets to his room, I don't want to find him in some drunken stupor somewhere."

Despite his purposeful attempts at making him embarrassed, he took it on the chin with a shameless simper, alongside Tracer's bubbly giggle.

"We will, love – and don't worry. I'll make sure he meets his curfew."

"I have _ears,_ you know." His protest went ignored. The Blackwatch commander gave one last regard to them both before leaving them, and the moment he did, it was like the pervasive tension clinging to the air like thick smog cleared up. He didn't know about the lady beside him, but he certainly eased up. He breathed a sigh.

"I'll catch you at the bar after checkup, I need a shower." he grumbled. At least the promise of a nice, stiff drink was alluring enough to keep him energized for now, otherwise his aching muscles protested every movement. He forged onwards, regardless.


	2. Chapter 2

The shower was like standing under the waters of life itself, feeling the droplets cascade down his back and weave through his hair to wash away all of the tension, stress and aching. It was little, simple things like that he came to appreciate the most, as he didn't get much of a chance always on the run from authorities, or heading to the next shindig that inevitably ended up in fire fights. There was also the added benefit of not stinking like gunpowder, sweat and bourbon, which more people than just him could respect.

Afterwards, there was the mandatory trip to the clinic. It was a smaller, more mobile unit closer to the gym than her huge medical wing in the base proper, and the head of research and practitioner herself often provides the quick, five minute check ups on the weekends, where missions tended not to take place. At least, not from the sister organization. Blackwatch had no schedule it operated under, seizing chances they could when the opportunity arose – many a nights he had been roused from his slumber to pull off an ambush at three in the morning.

He politely rapped on the door to the doctor's office, standing back and busying himself with fixing his hat. A moment passed before he distantly heard shuffling within, then he was graced with the beaming face of the medic. McCree wasted no time in tipping his hat in genuine respect for her, following her inviting gesture to enter and hauled himself up on the medical couch

"Ah, Jesse, I trust everything has been well." Angela Ziegler greeted, taking a moment to lower the floating bed to better accommodate his height, indicating that Tracer had already been in and had her check up. She moved back towards her desk, filtering through the number of files gathered on it before selecting the appropriate one, refreshing her memory with his records.

"You tell me, you're the doctor here, angel." he drawled, satisfied with the bemused light that sparked in her sapphire-coloured iris. If he had to be honest with himself, Mercy looked the very angelic depiction she emulated, flowing blonde hair neatly tied in a ponytail, with some daring locks springing free and caressing her warm cheeks like a halo, and a kind, motherly inflection in her tone that put a smile on even the most battle scarred warriors.

"We'll have none of that, young man, or I'll have a chat with Reyes to teach you some manners." she reprimanded playfully, wagging her index finger, taking a moment to retrieve the dreaded red pen and circle.. something on his record. She returned it back to the safety of her desk, then read one of the ever changing electronic monitors, only to huff in great frustration as thin brows furrowed. To Jesse, her ire only served to make her ethereal beauty turn cute.

"He needs to ease off on the training, it's amazing you did not rip a tendon with how much he forces you through." she grumbled, gathering a tube of gel from her cabinet and giving it to the younger man. "Apply this to your bruised areas, it should speed up the healing process and cool the inflammation."

McCree scrounged up a mock pout, tenor wavering with faux upset as he exclaimed; "What, you're not gonna kiss it better? How will I ever recover now?"

Angela halted, turning to take one look at his sorry excuse for a convincing hurt visage, and shook her head. Nevertheless, her slim digits curled around his cheeks, cupping them and bringing his head forward so that she may plant a light peck on his forehead, feeling the warmth that cast from his flush – apparently, he did not expect her to actually go through with it, and she pulled away to view an awe-struck cowboy.

"Off you go, _mein Kind._ I believe Lena is still looking forward to your company. Don't mess it up."

That got him to gather his wits, mumble his gratitude as the reddened flush contrasted harshly with his sun-kissed skin. McCree fumbled, hat tipped down to obscuring his face as he hopped off the bed and exited her clinic in a bit of a daze. For all his joking about calling her an angel, there was no faulting that Angela was a breath of fresh air compared to the bottom of the barrel scum he had worked with.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked – thinking on it, he wondered what he had done to deserve her kindness and little favours. She had always laughed it off and said that he didn't need to do anything, and that she enjoyed showering him and the other downtrodden members with a bit of light in their life. Others cast it aside as pity, but McCree accepted it. He wasn't in denial over what he had done in the past or who he was, after all.

But her words – almost like a stern warning – baffled him. He wasn't sure how he could mess it up, though there was a first for anything, and it'd be just his luck if he manages to upset the most optimistic, spunky agent of the clean peacekeeping force. The westerner took the doctor's words to heart, if not for his or Lena's sake, but for Angela, he'd try to be on his best behaviour.

.. at least, until after a few drinks, where he wouldn't assume responsibility.

* * *

When he arrived at the bar, there was a homely ambience that never got stale to experience, and he drunk in the lowlit, cordial atmosphere. His dirt-coloured hues gazed across, trying to spot the amicable woman, which was not hard when her accelerator provided a soft glow in the relative dark. She appeared to be nursing a drink close to herself, conversing quietly with the bartender. He had to hand it to her: he had never been able to get that man to speak more than a few words, but from the looks of it, they were engaged in a small discussion.

McCree took a moment to survey the rest of the bar, old habit of paranoia urging him to do so even if he just wanted to head to the stools. Many diners he had conducted business in had been torn apart in skirmishes because they didn't check to see if it was a set up. There appeared to be few patrons, catching sight of a few regulars – two of which were the great German giant Reinhardt, and his diminutive blood brother Torbjörn.

When he was assured it was safe (and inwardly scowling at himself for taking the precaution in the first place) he strode up to the bar, removing his hat and slipping onto the stool next to her, blasted by the force of her positive demeanour the moment she turned her head and regaled him with an illuminating smile that was far brighter than the dim bulbs or blue orb of her device. He returned it, yet felt as if his uncertain, crooked grin barely could hold a torch to hers.

"Did you get lost on the way or did Mercy keep you in?" she jovially teased, nudging him with her elbow. He hailed the tender, and without even a word he was given his usual order of scotch whisky. He swirled the coppery liquid within the shot glass, musing her question before answering.

"The latter. She always discharges me with some medicine or another. You get that problem?"

"Oh, like you wouldn't believe!" agreed Lena, taking a sip of her cider, savouring it and continuing. "It has to be an age thing – she's always doting on us so called ' _young'_ folk."

"That's impossible, the darlin' couldn't be more than a day over twenty." McCree opposed. It was just one of the great mysteries he would be content to not know the answer of, as he wouldn't like to insult the medic by asking her age, especially with no proper segue or context to do so. However, his companion thought otherwise, free hand flying in gesture to accompany her vocals.

"I'm telling you, she's pushing _thirty_." Then, she added. ".. I think."

They shared a brief look, before Lena too caved to accept that perhaps some things were not meant to be known. As she returned to her drink, McCree was left to his musing, observing her from the corner of his eye. He took in account the way the light cast upon her softened up her features, giving her an almost otherworldly allure, offset by the reminder of how readily she had fought him – and how well she did, too. It made him wonder just how such a chirpy personality could be so easy-going with a man like Gabriel.

Tracer struck him as an honest person regardless – she was in Overwatch, after all, not the shady part he was associated with – and decided the best way resided in simplicity: asking her about it.

"How'dya managed to get so chummy with the big guns? He's not what you call great at mingling." he questioned, bushy brows curving upwards, much like his lips, gaze imploring her reaction. She made a soft noise of affirmation, lighter brown hues darting off to the side as she thought on the man in question (after taking a moment to translate what he meant by _'big guns'_ ) and was oddly thankful she was not the only one with a noticeable accent and colloquialisms that took time to understand.

"I find it easy to get along with everyone, even mister grumpy guts like Reyes. It's just who I am, you know?" she explained. "After the um, _accident_ , he has been surprisingly supportive. More so than Commander Morrison."

Immediately, his eyes flickered to the elephant in the room; the device fastened around her chest. He had heard something about a pilot from the clean branch being issued as killed in action, yet it was only recently that they since rescinded such a statement alongside issuing a public broadcast praising their engineering and scientific ingenuity. There were no plans to revive the Slipstream project, though.

McCree brought his attention back to Tracer, as she was still speaking.

"He – Gabriel, I mean – _can_ be pretty sympathetic when he wants to be. He kicked my arse into gear, that's for sure."

"We are talking about the same Blackwatch commander here, right?" he asked, and they shared a small chuckle over it. Sympathetic was one of the last words Jesse would associate the older, darker skinned man with. Then, quieter, softer; "I'm sorry. About the accident. I heard it over the radio after it happened."

It sounded like some pat on the back apologetic nonsense that he almost scowled at. The truth of the matter was he was knee deep in routing out rogue Bastion units that had hunkered down in some god-forsaken corner of the world. An official Overwatch approach would've looked bad – as they were under heavy scrutiny and criticism from the public eye to begin with due to their militaristic approach and other such garbage he filtered out, so they sent out a squad of personnel with unknown face and name to the world, all who happened to operate under the Blackwatch banner to deal with the situation quietly.

And quietly it _was_ dealt with. Nobody, not the UN, the public or even low ranking members knew what happened, merely that the threat vanished into thin air. They could have their speculation and paranoid fantasies, but the truth remained under wraps. Which is why he couldn't say as much to the woman to comfort.

Tracer was at least privileged enough to know that the covert ops existed, perhaps thanks to Gabriel himself – knowledge that only the original strike force and the driving forces behind Overwatch were privy to. But he wasn't willing to breach confidentiality on testing the extent of what she knew.

A sombre mood captured her, but even still, Lena waved it off with a small gesture and a modest smile, running a hand through her wild hair, a hundred words in her throat yet none came to the tip of her tongue, until she settled on a dismissive cadence. "Don't be sorry. It's not like you caused the malfunction to happen. Besides, I'm alive, love. That's something to be happy about."

"I know, _but_ -"

"Hey, hey, hey; no buts, big guy. Butts are for ashtrays." A strange look crossed the tanned man's face, but he made no further comment on the matter. He didn't get a full answer to his original question, as he severely doubted that his mentor would be so willing to put himself out there for anyone.

Morrison maybe, back in the day. But now? There was something clearly relating to her accident than meets the eye. He did witness her.. for a lack of a better word, _teleport_ , during their fight – perhaps he was interested in the new found abilities.

"Let's not dwell on that, though. It was like, _years ago._ " He didn't dare correct her, given that her perception on time may be _somewhat_ warped. "What of you? Dangerously dashing outlaw? Or perhaps a vigilante keeping the peace his own way?"

He chuckled sheepishly, downing the shot of whisky and ordering another shortly after, voice hoarse as the warm liquid set alight his throat and buzzed. "I'm someone a girl like you shouldn't be bothering with."

Tracer turned then to face him, elbow resting on the bar, much to the chagrin of the tender, and supported her chin with the palm of her hand, the movement casting dancing shadows that streaked across her face and added an impish effect. Her voice remained full of teasing cheer.

"And who should a ' _girl like me_ ' bother with?"

McCree opened his mouth, then closed it promptly. She had an underlying point: he didn't know her nearly enough to say, and it seemed every word that she uttered and every minute they spent together, he learnt something new about Overwatch's prodigy. Yet, because of that unfamiliarity, he found himself unwilling to spill his life story as readily as Tracer may be to him. A lot of it had to do with trust – there was a small (read: huge) part of him still stuck in the old ways, and those habits died hard and made him stubborn.

So, he bowed his head. "Fair play. I'm not nearly drunk enough to be a story teller yet."

Surprisingly, she accepted that reasoning. As curious as she may be to learn more about him, if he was reluctant to part the information, then Lena wasn't about to force him. It only dawned on her that they had done quite a lot of talking and not nearly enough drinking, but that didn't matter. She stretched, arms behind her head and eyes closing briefly.

"Add our drinks to my tab, Joe." said Lena to the tender, sliding out of the stool and stifling a yawn. McCree perked an eyebrow, leaning back and taking care not to fall off as he tried to halt her.

"Whoa there, the night's still young, darlin'. You leaving already?"

"The bet was to buy you a drink, not to stay." she reminded, shooting him a wink. "So I just bought you one. Catch you later, Clint Eastwood."

Jesse mumbled his goodbye, watching her leave the bar, though not before saying goodnight to the two elder gentlemen still in their corner. He shrugged, returning to his renewed drink and pulled it closer to his chest. He usually didn't mind drinking alone, yet this time, it felt oddly lonelier now that the presence beside him had vanished, leaving nothing but a cold, vacant seat.

He raised his glass to toast nothing in particular, drained it, and went to retire for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

The moment the door shut behind her, Lena Oxton's back hit against it and she slid to the floor, eyes tightly screwed shut as she brought her knees up close to her chest – or as close as the stupid device allowed her to do so. A burst of fiery temper cracked across her mind like a whip, fingernails digging into the harsh metal and having half a mind to rip the damn thing off.

But she couldn't. Not now, not ever. The accelerator was more than just a fancy light show giving her _'powers'_ that kids marvel at. It was her _life support._

The British woman thought she had moved passed it, by now. Yet the chat with McCree had only served to surface long suppressed memories that she swallowed down forcefully to keep up appearances as the happy-go-lucky star child of Overwatch. Amidst the swamp of anger, grief rose up and clutched at her throat like a pervasive hand as all the aspirations of becoming a pilot, of living a normal life, were dashed time and time again.

She hated this. She hated _getting_ like this. A relatively unassuming day could be brought to it's knees because of a reminder that hit too close to home, and she felt like she was drowning in the sea of time once more. It was hard to breathe, to think on anything other than the images that went by in her mind too fast it was giving her whiplash. The woman's vision seemed to blur as the sounds blended into one, until she wisely chose to break free of the iron, vice-like grip and move to her bathroom.

The sound of rushing water accompanied by the cold jolted her back in reality, and she was no longer lost in her memories, drifting in the visions she witnessed and the past lives she had gone through. Lena dipped her hand into the sink, gathering water in the palm of her hand and splashing it on her face, cooling down the sudden sweat that the bad trip brought on.

"Come on, love." she said to the mirror, staring at the bleak reflection of herself that was no longer smiles and giggles, but instead worn eyes and haggard face. "You've gotten past this before."

Tracer forced herself to think after the accident, when Winston had developed the device. She had gone through a roller coaster of emotions, absolutely overjoyed that she was alive to the plummeting decent of depression as it manifested as night terrors that she still experienced. She had managed to put most of it behind her, or at least put up a good enough façade to fool herself into thinking she had, with the help of a select few agents.

Unexpectedly, Reinhardt of all people took her state very seriously. He had caught her one day, struggling to tune in back to what was happening around her, mumbling something or another about being a maid when he snapped her out of it, good eye glistening with nothing but horror and concern. As she could not hide it from him, she more or less broke down and told him what was going on.

The first thing he had done was wrap her in the most supportive embrace she had ever felt, and she still treasured such an action, recalling upon it when she could feel herself slipping back into the past. Then, he took her aside, sat her down and quietly talked to her about many soldiers under his command, especially the older, veteran ones back when he was a major of the German Army, who struggled to disassociate the vivid flashbacks to the war front to what was happening around them.

Lena learnt quite a lot about the gentle giant that day. The elder gentleman was a pillar of support, entertaining her with great, glorious stories when she just needed a moment to recharge the batteries, so to say. As she forged that bond set upon unshakeable trust, it broke way to the two closest to him, Mercy and Torbjörn, who likewise did everything they could to make sure she simply felt _safe._ Mercy, bless her heart, felt deeply empathetic over the issue, always fussing over her ever since that day.

The same couldn't be said about Jack Morrison.

Where she hoped her commander would offer firm, yet reasonable guidance, he seemed more wrapped up in pinning the blame on Gabriel. Her eyebrows furrowed sharply, fingers gripping the sink until her knuckles turned white. She was not privy to the conversations between the two officers, but even she knew it couldn't have been the darker skinned man's fault.

Lena didn't understand what she had done to Morrison to earn his disinterest. Half the time, she felt inwardly screwed up because she felt like an unwanted addition to the roster of agents, even if his second-in-command Ana Amari disputed otherwise. She had mentioned the typical guff that he was under a lot of pressure and stress, and that meetings often deluged into arguments between Gabriel and Jack. Naturally, she wouldn't elaborate further, other than it was a 'clash of interest', which was as nebulous, pacifying statement as you can get.

That was when Reyes swooped in to fill in the shoes left by Morrison. Initially, she had shared just as much surprise as McCree expressed when he had offered his sympathies, but she didn't divulge further into that night with the cowboy.

Gabriel offered what he called ' _tough love,'_ keeping her mind set on the positives of such an accident and not to dwell on tainted memory. Exiting the bathroom, her gaze fell upon the bed where it was not too long ago both she and the man in question sat upon it, able to recall all that was said with acute accuracy.

It had been tough to swallow the medicine of truth that he issued, but she understood the necessity. Yes, the accident was tragic, and neither of them were going to say it wasn't. But the longer she lamented on what could've been, the harder it would be to simply move forward in life.

"You don't want to end up as cynical as me, Lena." he had said. "The world hit you with a cheap shot. Are you going to sit there and take it?"

No, she wasn't. That was why she didn't give up on life, even despite the horrors of the time stream she went through. Lena Oxton was a fighter, and she decided that day that if she was to go down, it would be on her own terms, not some tragedy they couldn't account for.

For all her bravado, she only felt slightly better. Tracer was supposed to be getting some sleep, however with all that triggered and put forward to the front of her mind, she knew she wouldn't escape her nightmares so easily. The woman drew in a breath, heaving a heavy sigh as she moved to change out of her evening wear to some casual slacks and jacket, aiming to take a walk around the base to exhaust her active and alive brain.

* * *

Overwatch was different in the night. The automated lights had long since flickered on to provide vision in the darkened corridors, with only very few soldiers still meandering about with their time. She caught a few smoking indoors, cigarette stuck out the window. A part of her wanted to remind them the policy – that it wasn't allowed – but frankly couldn't find the energy or the want to do so.

Lena passed them, letting her feet take her wherever they wanted to as she walked with no direction at all. Aside from the chronal device giving her a constant reminder of it's existence with it's noise, there was little sound that hung in the air – perhaps the odd churn of the pipes as water passed through, or the shuffles of boots in a relatively empty hallway echoed. She shoved her hands into her pockets, lips easing into a neutral expression.

Admittedly, she had thought about going back to the bar, wondering if McCree was still there, drinking himself silly, but he never struck her as much of a drinker when alone. He, like her, preferred company. Anything was better than being left to one's thoughts, as hers often tried to draw her back to _that_ time of her illness. Lena eventually decided against it – turning up to him like she was would merely spurn unwanted concern.

There were others – Angela was likely still awake, closing her clinic for the night, but once more found herself reluctant to bother the angelic woman. Her mood would pass, she didn't need to burden anyone with –

" _Oxton?"_

.. it. Blinking a few times, Tracer dragged her gaze up to the owner of the voice, resisting the urge to grimace when it belonged to Gabriel Reyes. As she inspected him, she noted that he had opted to dress in something less stiff than the imposing ebony and red armour that seemed to be like a second skin for him. Instead, he wore tracksuit trousers and a dark grey hoodie with indiscernible decal on the back.

She felt small when his intense scrutiny implored her face, rugged lips dipped in a frown that was marred with slight worry that did not reflect in the coal-coloured iris. That was one thing that always sent chills to her spine: the only thing that ever _did_ reach his eyes was anger. He rose a calloused hand to rub the back of his shaved head, brow arced in curiosity.

"My boy didn't give you any trouble, did he?"

"No, no." she hastily dispelled any idea that her droll mood was anything to do with Jesse. "He was a perfect gentleman. You found yourself a real charmer in him."

"He likes to think so." he huffed, gesturing her to follow. Tracer supposed she did wish for company, even if she was finding every excuse in the book to avoid it, and jogged down the hall to catch up. His hands remained slack in his pockets, but he did cock his arm and allow the smaller woman to slip hers through his, linking them. He pulled her close, and the two of them walked slowly down the hall, side by side.

"I didn't expect to catch you wandering." Gabriel said, tone belaying a pressing question for why she was out.

"Speak for yourself, sir." she pointed out. "We're starting to think you're a vampire, 'cause you're only the most active at night."

"Cute, but you won't avoid my question."

Tracer hesitated, head tilting to lean on his shoulder as they strolled, trying to find the best way to phrase it. The intimate behaviour was ignored by Gabriel, as he knew the woman was a physical person. She had made it expressly clear to anyone if she got a bit too personal, to say as such, but oddly enough he didn't mind her little token favours. The warmth that he provided, and the soft fabric of the jacket with hard, defined muscle underneath gave an easy reminder that she was still anchored in reality.

"It was better than staying in bed and fidgeting all night." she finally admitted, eyes watching their feet and letting Reyes lead them. Her steps were like uncertain shuffles compared to his assured gait. "Chatting with McCree, we might've – kinda, mentioned the incident, and it brought a bad trip. That's all."

Gabriel scowled, his voice dipping into a threatening growl. "Everything that boy does he messes up. I wonder why I even bothered." Well, he did know why – for all his faults and past sins, Jesse McCree was still one hell of a duellist. He had never witnessed a quick draw as fast as his before. The man didn't have to be socially perfect to be a great fighter. Gabriel was a living testament to that. However looking at the way her face was pinched and dark shadows crept under her eyes twisted his gut and made him regret not accompanying the pair to keep him in check.

"It's not his fault," she defended him lightly. "I was the one that opened up with it."

" _Why_?"

She lifted her head, uncomfortably aware that his gaze was pinned on her. Lena didn't want to say that Reyes was the reason, as talking about the Blackwatch commander sometimes associated with the defining moment that brought them to what they were, and that McCree had been curious to the extent of such a friendship.

So, she merely shrugged with her free shoulder, her voice coming across a lot more quieter and mousy, now, as she lied. "I thought I was past it enough to be able to casually mention it. But I guess there's still some progress to make, huh?"

Tracer tried to chuckle at that, but it fell flat, and she quickly drew into silence, much like Gabriel. Thankfully, he seemed to buy into her lie, and exhaled a long sigh.

"You're a real piece of work, Lena." he ruefully mused, halting them. He turned to face her, drawing his arm out from hers and viewed her questioning face. His hand came up, gently brushing the locks of hair that tumbled out of it's style away from her eyes and clasped her shoulder firmly in support. "Remember what I told you. You are never alone, not while we are here."

She nodded, and a small smile managed to crack through like rays of sun filtered through the blinds.

"I'll walk you back to your room. Think you can manage catching some sleep?"

"I think so. Thanks, Gabriel." There was so many things she could say, but true exhaustion began to settle over her, body slumping as she wanted nothing more than to toss herself onto the bed and sleep, nightmares or not.

"No need to thank me." They returned arm in arm, and the walk back seemed relatively quick. It seemed they hadn't drifted far from her room. As they bid each other goodnight, they remained unaware that their little nightly chat did not go unobserved.


	4. Chapter 4

"Why don't you tell me again, this time sounding _less_ like a paranoid protester grabbing a rumour and flying with it."

The blonde haired American forced himself to shake the feeling of being browbeaten by his own second-in-command, her heavily accented voice daunting offset with a light tease that was only reserved for the best of people; namely him. Despite his efforts, there was a reason he appointed her his second, and it showed quite well when he found himself overstepping the line.

Had it not been for the fact he was calibrating his tactical visor, he would have turned his head to shoot a withered look at her no doubt Cheshire grin, her deft fingers sliding across the biotic rifle as she manually cleaned each individual component that made up the bizarrely unique choice of weapon. Thus, he was forced to glower at the moving targets, hoping she was looking the moment he did.

Jack Morrison tapped a few buttons on the visor's control just above his ear, swinging his pulse rifle forth and shooting the targets with deadly accuracy. A moment passed and his red-tinted vision sparked in life, zoning in on the targets and offered visual indicators of aim assistance.

He nodded to himself, only to curse under his breath as the habit of movement skewered the visor's calculations, and he was forced to repeat the process again, gesturing for Ana, whom was reclining by the panel that operated the firing range, to send more targets forth. Only then, did he deign to address her words.

"Reyes and Oxton," he punctuated his worsening mood with his shots in conviction. "In the dead hours of the night were taking a stroll together -"

"Oh, the _horror_."

" – the two of them awfully close for an officer and an agent. It's getting concerning, Amari. This isn't the first time I've caught sight of those two.." he struggled to find the right word, as each candidate sounded progressively damning in his mind. He decided on one, flatly finishing with; " _Cuddling_ up to each other."

The Egyptian sharpshooter could not keep a straight face, her professionalism thrown right out of the window as uncontrollable laughter erupted from deep within her throat. She steadily placed her biotic rifle down just so that she could utilize her hands to wipe the tears that threatened to spring, only to fail in regaining composure when she noticed her superior bristling; the little blonde hairs on the back of his head standing up.

She fished around in her trench coat's pockets before retrieving a tissue, adequately removing the small droplets of mirth that spilt. Her reaction had distracted him, and once more he messed up the calibrations.

Sighing in frustration, he ripped the headpiece of and tossed it unceremoniously to the ammo table, adding his assault rifle to there and ran his hands through cropped hair. The moment he had said it, he wished he could take his words back, just as much as he wished to unsee what he had watched last night. There was no point dwelling on it, now. He said it. He witnessed it. That was all there was to the situation.

"Do you want me to tell you what you sound like right now?" she inquired, bemusement present in the nuances of her accent. Her kohl-lined eyes followed him as he turned, joining her behind the bullet-proof screen of the control panel and slumped into the other, cushioned leather chair.

"No, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you." It was as if all the stress, worry and responsibility bled into his tone, because never before had she heard him sound so beaten.

"You sound like an overprotective father who disapproves of his daughter's _bad boy_ friends." Ana stated gently, revising what she originally wanted to compare it to and tossed forth a can of lager, to which he grabbed flawlessly, cracked it open and took a much needed languid sip. He scoffed after. It wasn't the first time his method of commanding had been attributed to paternal parenting, and he doubted it would be the last time the comparison was made.

Despite everything shown at face value, he genuinely was concerned for Tracer's sake, even if he ignored Ana's attempts to get him to be a bit more outward in showing that. He believed that being an officer – a figure that people looked up to for guidance, required him to be equal parts stern _and_ caring. If he wasn't, then he'd just be a pushover, or the agents would grow to hate his leadership.

"It's not about miss Oxton," he finally admitted to her, rubbing his chin and absent-mindedly making a mental note that he needed to shave. Beards never did suit him as well as his best friend.

"I just – I'm not sure why Gabriel is encouraging that sort of behaviour. It's a breach of ethical conduct and makes me question his position as a commander. What if there are _other_ things he turns a blind eye to?"

"I think you may be reading a little too deeply into it, Jack." contested Ana, resting one of her slippered feet onto his chair and swivelling him to face her. He did, though he couldn't meet her strong gaze. "You **do** remember _why_ Lena is.. shall we say, quite physical? You may call Reyes many things, but I don't think he's quite a monster yet."

He bobbed his head gravely, recalling what Amari had informed him a week or so after the Slipstream accident. Touch was simply a coping mechanism for the young woman to remind her of the reality around her. There were only very few that actually minded it, others happy to oblige. Jack did not expect that his old friend would fall into the latter category, which had sparked his thoughts to run wild with implications.

After a moment passed, he found himself chuckling woefully against the cold metal of his beer can, voice a tenor softer as he decided to look at Ana. As always, her face remained a picturesque stock of beauty – small yet noticeable laugh lines gracing her cheeks and mouth, eyes ever fierce yet enchanting, all topped off with a battle-worn tiredness that all agents seemed to share.

"Sometimes I feel like I am _your_ second-in-command, Ana." he says, causing her grin to drop to a more homely smile that was best given in sullen atmospheres or private instances. "But I still have my doubts."

"You wouldn't be our superior without them," mused Amari. Jack was still better at socialising than the man they were discussing, however still lacked the tact to deliver emotional advice. He often just left such jobs to her, infamously earning her a similar moniker to Mercy. "If it'll put your mind to ease, I'll get McCree to keep an eye on them both."

"Somehow, that does little to assure me." Jack found himself grumbling, draining the rest of the beverage and following up shortly with; "I'm appalled you'd be willing to put trust into a former criminal in the first place. That isn't easy to earn back once you throw it away."

Ana tutted, rolling her eyes at Morrison's immoveable stubbornness. " – and I'm beside myself that you have so little faith in my judgement. You saw the look on that boy's face after that sting op – like the fear of _al ilāh_ had been installed into him."

"Or a fear of Gabriel." amended Jack, tossing the empty can in the waste basket near them. There was undoubted truth to Ana's words – after the Blackwatch commander had presented the boy to them, he had looked like a puppy kicked with it's tail between it's legs, blood and dirt caked to his face and hat filled with bullet holes when the inevitable face off took place.

Reyes looked positively smug, as the operation had been a smashing success. Most of the members were either detained or dead, with no less than a handful fugitives escaping. McCree remained to be the only one given a chance, though he was unsure what criteria he had filled to be chosen as such. At the time, he didn't complain.

Morrison had questioned Gabriel over the decision, but he had dismissed him off that Jesse was the only one that showed any will or want to reform into a better person than the lowlife scum he was considered. Unsurprisingly, he didn't buy into that, especially when it became apparent how talented of a gun slinger the boy was. Of course the Blackwatch commander cared more about his _skill_ than his rehabilitation.

Ana patted his knee, rolling the chair back and hauled herself it, shooting him with a mystifying smile full of hidden meanings and blurred lines. "Not to worry, Jack. The sole purpose for why I'm here is to sort _your_ messes out. Leave it to me."

"At the risk of sounding cliché, I have a bad feeling about this."

He watched her leave to the sound of tinkling laughter.

* * *

His dirt-coloured hues observed the stirring spoon as she took her time to prepare the tea, his own cup being nursed awkwardly in his hands, the cups a little too small for comfort. In fact, being in her presence was uncomfortable – Ana Amari was a legend in Overwatch and such grand tales often drifted to the darker, dirtier branch as well. What was myth and what was truth was impossible to decipher at this point, but he liked to believe she could shoot a kill shot of two-thousand and four hundred miles.

Which made her all the more intimidating.

Humming to herself, Ana dipped the tea bag several times as the liquid darkened, and she disposed of the bag afterwards, bringing the cup up to her lips, enjoying the heat that wafted and circled her face. Without warning, her gaze fixated on the cowboy, causing his slouch to whip into a rigid posture, hands pulling away to rest on his thighs.

"How are you settling in, young man?" she started sweetly.

"Feels like I'm back on the range, ma'am." responded the tanned male, tenor pitching a fraction higher as he tried to calm his nerves. With a crooked grin, the gesture did not meet his eyes and he hid behind the tea cup, sipping it and stomaching it, even though he despised tea.

"That's good, very good!" she beamed, gracing him with a disarming smile aimed to ease the tension she could spot weave into his muscles. "Reyes is not running you into the ground, is he?"

McCree didn't answer at first, feeling like he was under careful examination, similar to when he was forced into mandatory check ups with Mercy. At least with the good doctor he could be a shameless flirt to ease the tension, but with the Egyptian sharpshooter, it was as if he was being interviewed for something he didn't know he was applying for. He wet his upper lip in uncertainty, bringing his hands back to the table top.

The question itself seemed rigged with heavy intentions. The truth was _yes_ , his commander had been extraordinarily vigorous with his training, like he had years worth of expertise to catch up on, and every night landed in him becoming an aching mess in his bed. Not to mention, he was not an agreeable sort, and many of his light heated jests had been shot down before he could even joke about them.

At the very least, he did listen to what he had to say regarding strategy, even adapted their plans once or twice based on his knowledge on similar events that happened during his time as a Deadlock Gang member. Absent mindedly, McCree ran his hand through untamed locks, sheepishness overtaking every action.

"Give me some credit, miss. It'll take more than a curmudgeon captain to keep this slinger down." he informed. "Forgive me for speakin' outta turn but I get the feeling you're after somethin'."

"I do like a soldier who can think on his feet." Ana teased, before her mood grew sober. She entwined her fingers, elbows resting on the table as her chin came to delicate fit against the bridge of digits, voice deepening a notch as she dropped to a conspiratorial inflection. "I require your assistance in some.. _delicate_ matters -"

His brows shot up high. It didn't go unnoticed.

" – Get your mind out of the gutter, boy." she huffed, and he obliged with a genuine, relaxed chuckle. "I need you to keep an eye on Gabriel for us. Be our.. man on the inside, so to speak."

Purposefully, she left out mentioning Tracer. While Jack may have his paranoia, it wasn't entirely unfounded, and Ana could grimly understand that leaving Reyes unchecked could lead to issues down the line. It went past simply a violation of ethical conduct – without all the red tape and bureaucratic nuances to worry about, who knew what went on. They saw the results of course, the dark skinned American made sure of that – but the method remained a mystery.

McCree on the other hand, was torn. Taking up such a task most definitely be seen as an act of betrayal, and he would not want to be on the receiving end of a revenge-fuelled commander. On a personal level, he simply didn't want to in the first place – Gabriel had been the one to extend a helping hand, even if those same hands had dismantled his gang, killed or incarcerated his friends and put a stop to his illegal arms dealing.

"How about I pretend I didn't hear what you asked of me and we call it a day?" he drawled. "There's too many angles to consider here. I wouldn't even know what I'm _looking_ for, and just 'cause I was a criminal once before doesn't mean I'm gonna double-cross everyone I meet."

Defensively, Ana rose up her hands, frown marring her lips as if she expected him to simply accept and move on. Inwardly, it was a bit of a gambit what she was playing at: regardless of the outcome, it was in his mind, now, which was the main thing. "It's a mission worth undertaking if you reconsider. But, not to worry, young man. I understand."

He didn't answer her, letting her gather her things and slip out of the seat opposite him. She briefly clasped his shoulder as she passed, and a long-drawn out sigh eased out of him. _Mission worth undertaking_.. what a joke. He barely knew the nuances of the organization branch he was apart of, let alone Overwatch itself.

Yet he couldn't shake it off of his mind. He left the half-drunk cup of tea where it was, picked up his hat and fixed it on top of his head, thinking that accepting the life prison sentence was starting to shape up to be the more attractive option.


	5. Chapter 5

When Overwatch undertook missions and there were agents leftover because they hadn't been picked to go for a variety of reasons – the mission in question played too strongly on their weaknesses, they were ill or otherwise injured, and so forth – the commanders made sure that they partook in combat simulations to keep them fit, active and ready if backup was needed.

While there certainly was no shortages of crisis's and every hour of the day was spent fighting terrorism, criminals and rogue violent Omnics, it simply was not a case of suiting up and going. There were political connotations, cultural and ethical debate and a whole lot of protesters making it difficult to do the job. It simply wasn't like the 'old days' any more, where they were regaled as heroes and had free reign. No, now they had to conform to at least some standard set by the UN, and a whole lot of paperwork.

Jack was out in the field with at least five other agents and a handful of soldiers from their force, responding to a call for help in Rio de Janeiro, regarding a minor issue in territorial and urban dispute with the Vishkar Corporation. It was a formality more than anything, overseeing that the proceedings go according to the conglomerate's plan and providing adequate security for the hard-light manipulators.

That left Ana in charge of the agents and unofficially of the base.

Lazily reclining in one of the combat simulator's control room, she drifted into deep musing. She had never been one to take full leadership over something – busywork was more Jack's forté – but she couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to be granted the privilege of field commander. Naturally, it was something that was earned and not given, and she fondly remembered the day Morrison and Reyes actually worked together.

After her chat with McCree and knowing her superior's concerns, Ana was well-reserved, even if her thoughts were not. Sadly, with the inclusion of Tracer complicating the mix, and to some extent Jesse as well, she had an awful feeling that the two young adults were going to get caught in the cross-fire when the cold war thawed. True to her sharpshooter nature, she was going to keep an eye on the proceedings of the whole situation, striking when the time was right. She had already planted the seeds of doubt in Jesse's mind, in any case.

Leaning forth, she pressed a button on the intercom, her voice sounding out throughout the room, eyes glancing at the mulling agents.

"This is a simple re-enactment of _Operation: Stormy Descent_ , which for those of you who have yet to read the brief – shame on you. It was a real page turner, that." She paused for effect, lips curling into a smirk.

"But from the kindness of my heart, I will debrief. There are a total of five Bastion units rooted deeply within an old Omnic factory, making their last stand. You will be split into teams of two, with only contact to the base and your partner. Your goal is simple. Destroy them through any means within thirty minutes. You have ten minutes to pick your partner and create strategy. Good luck." Click.

* * *

Lena abandoned the brief once Ana had gave them the summary, entwining her fingers together and stretching her arms up in the air. Her usual partner for combat simulations, Winston, was out with Jack on the so called ' _mission of diplomacy_ ', meaning she was out of luck. Her gaze dragged over all of the gathered agents – none of them would mesh with her style as well as the big ape did.

It was a shame, too. They covered eachother's weaknesses flawlessly. Tracer did not have the endurance that her huge friend had, but what she lacked in pain tolerance she made up for with speed and evasion, which the same could not be said about Winston. As she prepared herself to grab someone, a drawling voice stopped her.

"Lookin' for a partner, lil' lady?"

A grin rose to her lips far before she even addressed the speaker, turning around to view the smirk plastered on McCree's roguish face. Truthfully, she had not expected to find him among the ' _Clearwatch'_ folk as she knew the sister organization liked to refer to them. With a spring in her step, she approached him, clasping his hand in quick greeting.

He looked much of the same, as if he had just left the bar where they shared a short drink together. Wild brown locks graced his face, the back of his head sporting an unsightly bun tied with an elastic band – it seemed a common style when he was about to do training or exercise, all topped off with the beginning of a beard.

"Oh, sorry, love." she said. "I think I just found him. He's a little green around the ears, a lousy fighter too –"

"I protest to that!"

" – but I _suppose_ I'll carry this 'McCree' guy's weight. It's the least I could do, after leaving so abruptly the other night." There was a moderate amount of shame that shone in her eyes, a sheepishness that rolled off her masked by an easy-going grin that he could see right through. But, he chuckled, accepting her words and dipped his head. After all, he was beginning to quite like the way cheerfulness reflected in her tone – almost like she lit up. It was infectious, in any case.

He took a moment to remind himself not to get _too_ familiar with those pretty lips and enchanting smile; getting attached was simply out of the question in his line of work. Every day could be the last. His smirk dropped a few notches though he forced it to remain, even if his crippling anxiety whispered in the back of his mind, talking over Lena's words.

".. you getting all this, love?" she perked a brow, waving a hand in front of his face. McCree blinked a few times, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Course, sweetie. Got every last word of it." he lied, then chose to move on before she could comment on the matter. "We got about five minutes left to come up with a plan. Any ideas as bright as your smile?"

His compliment, though cheesy, did bring about a flattering pink flush that graced her cheeks, and she shoved him playfully. Now was not the time to throw teasing banter back and forth – they can save that for post simulation drinks, which were definitely a must. The little push did little to off balance him, looking as pleased with the seeming success of the awful praise like a cat with cream.

Unfortunately, Tracer was not usually the one to come up with many plans pertaining to the simulations. Winston was the brains (and the brawn, too) behind many of their grand schemes, with some adaptation thrown in to spice it up courtesy of the pilot when it was necessary. She worked better judging the situation on the fly than staying in a command centre and pouring hours into a detailed plan that she knew rarely gets followed to a tee.

"The silence is worrying."

"I don't see you trying." she huffed, turning her gaze to the ceiling as if that would hold the answers. Sadly, it did not. Frustration won out, and she groaned. "There's – too much to account for. Where are the units stationed? How are they positioned? Does the area have any flanking points? Choke points?"

"Didn't you read the brief?" he pointed out. Lena shot him a withering look, and he cleared his throat. "I say we play it by ear. When the simulation starts, we'll do a bit of scouting, and go from there. Half an hours plenty of time. How bad could it be?"

* * *

Very bad.

It had been ten minutes into the simulation and the only productive thing they managed to accomplish was scout out the area, courtesy of Tracer. She looked like a ghost when she had accidentally blinked into the centre of the rooted units and recalled herself back to an earlier point of time almost immediately. They were notoriously placed in corners, deep into hallways with no leeway to flank.

McCree understood how this mission had been so difficult for the original strike-team, especially given the two that had to handle the mess. With no suitable defence to utilize, like Reinhardt's shield, or Winston's projected barrier, it was becoming apparent there might be little they could do. Bastion units did not get tired. They did not make human mistakes they could capitalize on. They never fumbled reloading and they were unsurprisingly more durable than a human.

Lena's back hit the wall as a hail of bullets sailed through the choke point, narrowly missing her head as she peeked out. She turned her head to regard the westerner hopelessly, pulse pistols pointed upwards and wet her lips in anticipation.

"I have an idea, but it's.. risky." she started. "I could draw the attention of the units and you could take care of them. There's no way they will be able to hit me with all of my charges."

"That isn't risky. That's downright suicidal. There's nothing stopping them turning to target me when they find no use with you, either." he argued. Plus, the idea of her rushing head first into danger strangely did not bode well with him. McCree didn't like so much working in a team, mainly because the responsibility of another's life resting on his shoulders hit a little too close to home. With Blackwatch, they more or less could do their own thing.

"I don't see _you_ coming up with any bright ideas!" she challenged, echoing the same thing said at the start.

Jesse squinted his eyes. All this time, he had been trying to think of something, though he was not as outspoken as the pixie like woman beside him to speak everything that crossed his mind. She did have a point, to some extent. He hadn't been very useful so far. Clearing his mind and trying not to think on the ticking clock, he remembered Ana's summary.

"Maybe.." he slowly murmured, "Maybe there's a clue to the title of the operation. _Stormy Descent_." His eyes gazed far up to the roof of the building. From his vantage point, he could see it was relatively unassuming; a single short barrier to keep people from falling and pipes jutted out, expelling white smoke. The building itself seemed pretty derelict, with worn stones that would give excellent purchase for scaling, providing they did not crumble under weight.

"Yeah, uh, I don't think operation names work like that. You do realise we have a mission called ' _Steel Mother_ ', right? Good luck deciphering that one."

McCree ignored her, holstering his revolver and gripped the stones. A small, passing part of him lamented that he did not bring gloves, but with little time left to spare, he pushed back the feeling of discomfort to the back of his mind and began climbing. Every time he pressed his weight against the stone he braced for a potential impact, but the sturdy material was more than enough to handle his weight.

Tracer didn't particularly want to leave him alone up there, and resigned to join him, following up shortly and appreciating the view that he had gone first, and not her. The units firing through the choke point halted when they were not picking up any vital signs, and returned back to standby mode, awaiting the next thing that crossed the deadly zone.

Reaching the top, Jesse grabbed a hold of the banister and strained his muscles to haul himself over it with great effort. Grunting, he rolled to his heels and stood, patting down some of the dust from the stone that had lined his burgundy coat. He glanced over, extending a hand out for Lena which she happily gripped a hold of. She was surprisingly light, taking little strength to help her up.

She stumbled a bit as she tried to find her footing, McCree gently steadying her with one hand to her side and the other still entwined with her hand.

"Y'all right there, doll?" he asked, letting go when he believed she wouldn't fall. Lena nodded, offering him a quick smile and twirled her twin pulse pistols back into her hands, with McCree following suit with his revolver. The door to the roof was locked, but with the condition of the building, it didn't take much effort at all for him to barge it down with his shoulder.

"Now we'll be able to flank 'em." he huffed. "You said something about one being in the hall?"

"Ah! Yeah. There was one in the hall, two on either side of the corners and the last two near the front of the choke point. My pulse bomb should be fully charged in a minute," she checked it over with her accelerator, where her bomb was gaining power and nodded in confirmation. "You should get the back two, love, and leave the front to me."

" _T_ _hat,_ sweetheart _,_ sounds like a plan."

The Bastion units cycled over their idle processors, though they would shut down within five minutes when the simulation ended. Their barrels remained pointed at the last known spot where they had detected hostiles, though no vital signs came up with a radius scan, indicating that they were either out of range, or dead.

The one in the hall barely had time to send a warning message over the shared Omnic network when it became stunned by a flash bang; error flags popping up from movement and visual subsystems and on-going report of damage, though it subsequently shut down when six precise revolve bullets littered into it and reduced it to scrap.

The remaining four immediately became aware of danger when it became offline, the two at the front turning to the back, only to find it empty, save for the heap of it's fallen brother. They could not bring the barrel of their guns to the front fast enough to gun down the blinking woman as she unhooked the pulse bomb from her accelerator and lobbed it into the centre of them.

"Bomb's away!"

She vanished, likely recalling to safety as it exploded quicker than they could uproot and leave, making the room into a shower of springs, armour and metal. Now on high alert, the two rooted units began firing through the point once again. With the narrow hallways provided, McCree was easily able to pick them off on their own with a similar trick; deciding to simply used what worked instead of trying anything fancy and new. In short succession, the five were taken care of, just shy of the time limit.

"We did it!" He only just managed to put his revolver away when Lena barrelled into him, arms tossed around his shoulders in good cheer. His own arms came to wrap around her waist naturally and hoisted her up in the air, chuckling mirthfully as they both shared a minor celebration over the victory.

"We make quite a team, don't we sugarplum?" he mused. Lena grinned ear-to-ear, looking down at him. It was only at this point did she actually pause, blink, and truly scrutinize the man before her, as if it was the first time she had ever met him. Had she always noticed the way his smile pinched his worn face into a relaxed yet content look? Or how wild the locks of his hair frame said face? Even beyond that, how there seemed to be ever-present bags under his eyes and dark cast shadows hidden on his sun-kissed tan skin.

"You bet your trusty revolver we do." They did make quite a pair. He'd never replace Winston in her heart for combat simulations, of course, but they played off of each other in a uniquely interesting way. He seemed to remember something, and cleared his throat, settling the woman down and retracting his arms, tipping his hat in a modest amount of embarrassment and respect. She didn't mind it much – it would take a great deal to shake the woman known as Lena Oxton.

"Let's report to Captain Amari, then we can nip to the bar, love. My treat!"

"Hah. Now you're full of ideas. Could've used that earlier." He was ever teasing; voice having a certain cadence of equal parts warmth, strained tiredness and rumbling quality that was pleasant to listen to. Inwardly, she wondered if she could how many drinks it would take to get him to sing karaoke.

"Shove off!" she laughed. "Come on. I'll race ya."

* * *

 _ **Note**_ : _In which McCree is slowly beginning to realise he was becoming sweet on her, and Lena finally notices that there was more the man than just a silly accent and cheeky nicknames. And Gabriel... well, you'll see next chapter, which is going to be a blast to write. This is a bit more of a filler chapter, building on McCree and Tracer. Enjoy!_


	6. Chapter 6

Tracer usually could hold her alcohol, or at least knew her body well enough to know when she was beginning to push the limit. Unfortunately, when with a conversational partner like McCree, she tended to lose track of just how many drinks she did have until it became clear through the warm buzzing in her stomach, the strong after taste in her mouth and the distinct scent of cheap cider overpowering her light, sporty perfume.

Thankfully, he downed stronger stuff than her ' _ladies drink_ ' as he called it, and was sufficiently hammered within the half hour. As it turned out, he wasn't a boisterous drunk at all, but instead a moody, sleepy one that was acutely aware of what was happening around him, even as his forehead slammed against the bar top and he either passed out or fell asleep – whichever came first. She nudged him a few times just to make sure he was alive, but the lightly snoring confirmed he was well.

He had rambled on about something or another, though it sounded like slurred complaining and she all but gave up trying to decipher his thick, southern drawl mixed with the drunken slowness. Lena rolled her eyes skywards, chin resting on her hands as she wondered just how she was going to drag a man a few heads taller than her and full of wiry muscle out of the bar.

Her salvation came in the form of the other patrons. Catching sight of the German giant, she leaned back on her stool and whistled sharply to grab his attention. He blinked, glancing up from his poker game with Torbjorn and Angela, beckoning her over; his tone booming and filling the room with ease.

"Lena, Come join us, we could always use an extra player!" he beamed towards her as she approached, hands shoved into her tracksuit bottoms and offering a crooked, but stable grin. Angela tossed him a look he was all too familiar with, a scolding one for not using his ' _inside_ ' voice, whatever that meant.

"It's tempting, love, but, I'm pretty pooped out from sim training today and I'm pretty sure Angela will destroy me if I even look at another drink tonight." Tracer said. The doctor in question opened her mouth, as if to retort, but after considering her words, conceded not to say anything as they were completely true. She didn't even bat an eye when her two close friends dissolved into sniggers, merely silencing them with _That Look._

"I don't suppose you could do me a favour, love." started Lena. "D'ya think you could make sure Jesse over there gets put to his room before you leave? He's a bit heavy for me."

"Och, of course, my dear. Do not worry about your little cowboy friend, I will make sure he returns safely." With a huge grin, the tipsy woman zipped over to the knightly man and threw her arms around him in a brief hug, to which he returned by ruffling her hair and making it even more of a wild nest than it already was. After the third blink, Tracer decided it was best not to use her accelerator in quick succession lest she wanted afternoon's lunch to be on the floor.

She bid her farewell to the poker players, taking one last glance to the sleeping form of the tanned male and smiled softly to herself. Naturally, it did not go unobserved, the doctor reading her expression from the corner of her eyes, disguising it under the pretence of looking at her cards. For now, she filed it in her mind for inquire later.

As winter was settling in, the nights had become that much colder in the main Switzerland base, though they had state-of-the-art air conditioning and radiators to combat the weather. Still, the empty, narrow hallways felt lonely and cold, making her subconsciously shiver and tuck her hands under her arms, head bowed slightly as she watched her feet move.

Unlike the last late night excursion, there were no milling soldiers this close to the bar. They were usually loitering around the intersections or near smoking areas, or were a patron to begin with. Lena brought her head up, gazing out of the window as her pace slowed down to appreciate the clear, star-lit sky with only a speckling of clouds obscuring the bright dots.

Heavy footfalls – like armoured boots – snapped her attention back to the front to make sure she wasn't going to bump into anyone, only to catch the ebony and ruby armour of Blackwatch attire. Given the darker hallways (though lit with dim fixtures), the lacing red that trimmed the armour glowed faintly, making the owner look far more foreboding and imposing, coupled with the glint of shotguns reflecting the light and lit ammo clips fixed to utility belts.

Tracer's lips morphed into a smile as she stared up at Gabriel. He likely had just returned from a mission, because he was in full armour, including the hooded trench-coat that provided surprising stealthiness, hiding parts of the illuminating regalia.

"Bottom of the night to you, copper." she joked as she passed, receiving a short grunt in affirmation. She paused, did a double take and took two blinks before she was in front of the Blackwatch commander, staring up at his face. He had the courtesy to stop when she did, arms crossed and the most sour look she had ever seen capture his permanently grumpy face.

"Whoa, whoa. Face check for Gabriel!" she exclaimed, devoid of any tact or grace under the influence of alcohol. She was always an honest person, but tended to err on the side of brutally truthful when given the false bravado of the liquid luck. His face, still just as angular, chiselled as she remembers it, now sported twin, _fresh_ lacerations that went from his right cheek, across his nose, to the other cheek, whereas the second was closer to his jawline that reached upwards.

"Love, Mercy is literally just two minutes away in the bar. I can grab her faster than you can say 'recall' -"

"No." he interrupted her quickly and gruffly, brows furrowing into a black, angry caterpillar as he shifted the weight from one boot to the other. "I'm going to keep this as a reminder to never trust Morrison's bloody intel."

Lena pursed her lips, such a statement was heavily loaded and not something to dissect in the middle of the hallway. Her honey-brown hues observed the wounds, only to flinch when she noticed that the stress of his facial muscles was causing one of them to break anew and begin to bleed. The Overwatch agent cleared her throat.

"You're bleeding."

To his credit, the only sign of discomfort or pain was the slight wince of his eyes, and a very slow raise of his hand to wipe some of the blood that oozed from the deep cut, only serving to smear it on his gloves and over the area where he had touched. Lena could notice he was beginning to get increasingly agitated over it, and smoothly grabbed a hold of his hands before he could do anything and chuckle airily.

"If you won't go to Mercy, then for Heaven's sake, at least let me clean you up. Not everything can be solved by walking it off." Even in her tipsy state she was ever perceptive to Gabriel's ways. The fact he was practically stomping down the halls indicated more than just his arrival, rather than he was likely suffering and withholding the expression of pain. He resigned to sigh; shoulders slumping just slightly.

"Aye aye, Doctor Oxton." he flatly stated, which only served to amuse her. He tugged his hands away from hers, shoving them into his coat pockets and stalking behind her as she took the lead. Lena shook her head, unable to believe how sulky the commander could get. It was almost endearing, if it wasn't the fact that a moody Gabriel was an unresponsive, belligerent one.

She took him to her room, as she knew there were first aid kits in her personal bathroom. Lena gestured to the bed for him to sit on with a fake, commanding look, to which he pretty much crashed down, hands moving to lower the hood and remove the black beanie, running gloved fingers through the tight bed of short slate-coloured curls. He muttered something about needing to shave and cut his hair soon as well, as missions often meant he neglected personal care. His goatee was starting to spread into a beard, as well.

As Lena rummaged through the bathroom, Gabriel busied himself with removing his coat entirely, followed by the thick, kevlar gloves and neatly folded them to his left where her pillows resided. His arms came to loosely rest over his knees, and his eyes wandered, taking in account the various motivational posters, some photographs stuck to the wall and many memorabilia to aviation. Her room was no means clean, but it had a certain personal feel to it.

Unlike his room, which was barely used and only had the necessities. Even then, half the time, he did not use it, and often just slept in his office.

"Alright, here it is!" she victoriously stated, poking her head out and immediately bumbling whatever she was about to say next. Lena recovered swiftly, but it wasn't often she saw Gabriel so casual – even with the odd dynamic of a friendship they had. Her gaze immediately drifted up to his hair, a grin splitting her face at just how much _younger_ it made him look.

"I _know._ " he huffed, catching her wandering eyes. "I'll be getting it cut soon enough. Before the next mission, I hope. You don't want to see it fully grown out."

"No, no, I think you should keep it like that! It's -" _Cute? Fetching?_ " – it suits you." _Nailed it._

He scoffed, apparently thinking otherwise. Tracer joined him at the bed, shuffling closer, grin dropping to a pout as she realised just how much taller he was than her. While she was five foot four and full of fight, he matched McCree's height at six foot one. He inclined his head towards her, and she cleared her throat yet again, trying not to let his unwavering pinpoint gaze shake her will. She shifted her position, leaning on one leg with her other foot pressed to the floor, putting them roughly eye level.

Popping open the first aid kit, she received some antiseptic liquid from a bottle and cotton wool balls, soaking them lightly with it and faced the tougher challenge of actually cleaning his face. It wasn't like it was terribly difficult – every agent had rudimentary first aid knowledge, but as her tipsy state was slowly lifting the haze around her mind she was realising just the kind of situation she was in.

It wasn't making it any easier, that was for sure.

Inwardly, she scolded herself for being so anxious around him. It was only _Gabriel Reyes,_ that was sitting on her bed, in her room, staring expectantly into her eyes and that really, really was not helping. Shaking her head imperceptibly (which of course was noticed, because nothing escaped him concerning her), her deft digits hooked around his chin and graced his jawline to steady his head whilst the cotton wool ball began to wipe the cuts gently.

"This might sting." she offered, just to break the silence. He did not make a scene as most patients were want to do within Overwatch, especially the more dramatic ones – the only indication of his discomfort was the mild wincing and rapid blinking that settled down when she moved to clean the surrounding areas rather than on the raw cut itself.

"You didn't have to do this for me, _mi belleza_." he noted, quieter and softer than his gruff tone before. She tilted her head at the nickname, though she did not know a lick of Spanish outside of 'hello' or 'thank you'. She may be playing doctor here, but she did not possess Angela's extraordinary large range of languages, though the good doctor was only truly fluent in a good handful.

"I wanted to." she simply answered, flicking the ball of wool into the bin and silently celebrating the perfect score of it landing without needing to get up. Another one took it's place, just to make sure every inch was covered and tossed that away shortly after. Lena reached for a small cloth and dabbed any excess, trying not to think on how Gabriel was watching her every movement.

When she finished, it was becoming increasingly hard not to have her mind drawn to things she'd rather not think about, such as Gabriel's close proximity and how warm and slightly rough his skin felt in her hands. Speaking of, she really should retract that hand away now that she had done, but she had done it so slowly it came across that she had just _caressed_ his jaw.

His lips twitched and Lena snapped to attention as if struck by lightning, tenor pitching higher as she shoved all of the medical supplies back into the first aid kit. "Ha! Well, I should, erm, put this back – feel free to leave, Doctor Oxton has officially discharged you!"

He didn't have enough time to respond, because she had already blinked into the bathroom, door half shutting behind her.

Her hands gripped the sink tight enough that her knuckles turned white, first aid kit tossed to the medicine cabinet and head hung in shame as a scarlet hue rushed to her cheeks and turned her peachy skin colour red raw; as if caught in sun burn. What was she doing? She was Lena Oxton, will of iron and placid by even the crassest of comments. After all, one did not grow up in south-end London without dealing with the streets and their wolf-whistling vandals.

Yet one single silly moment and it was like a hurricane overtook her, emotions flustered and wild and whispering many things she both wanted to indulge in and wanted to shove in the back of her mind. A smaller, reasonable side of her tried to snap her out of it – that she was being childish about the whole ordeal. Lena looked herself into the mirror, composed herself and muttered quietly;

"You're not that sixteen year old cadet giggling over the drop dead gorgeous flight lieutenants any more, Lena. Get yourself together." she tried to give herself a peptalk.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

All composure was thrown out of the window when she twisted around, finding herself trapped between the porcelain sink, Gabriel Reyes and his arms either side of her, hands resting at the side of the sink and head inclined down to regard her with an amused glint. It took all of two seconds to assess her situation before the blush that ravished her face spread down to the back of her neck and she tried to squish herself as much to the hard ceramic behind her, much to the protest of her spine. He took his cue to lean just that little bit closer.

"Ah, um – Gabby, love, what are – I mean, you're still here? Hehehe, your um, scars – no, I mean, wounds are looking fine, you don't need anything -"

"I believe I asked you a question."

She wanted to scream _yes_ , but it was not a discomfort that one tried to avoid. It was a frightfully self-indulgent one that begged her to simply give in to the intoxication of the proximity and scent (cheap cologne mixed with spent shotgun powder) while she stubbornly refused, mind fighting with body and with herself as she felt little more than a piece of paper caught in a whirlwind. Her breathing became just a fraction uneven, fingers itching to either push him away or pull him closer, and she was hating and loving every second of it.

Gabriel, on the other hand, remained the perfect stoic image of coolly collected and in control of the situation, relishing in the effect his mere presence was having. It was certainly brightening up the dour mood he had been caught in because of – well, now was not the time to think of Morrison, lest the moment be spoilt.

He moved forward, noting her hitched gasp of anticipation as his lips just grazed the side of her ear, hands sneakily sliding from the sink towards her back; and lowered his voice just enough to be a heavy whisper;

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

She didn't respond, only screwed her eyes shut and heart pounded against her chest as she inwardly debated if she should toss herself off the deep end and let go of reason, and the decision was effectively made for her as Gabriel made the move first – naturally, – and laid claim to just under her jaw where her fingers had been on him not too long ago.

Her hands flew to grab fistfuls of his curly locks, shuddering a stuttered noise as his teeth dug into the soft flesh. The feeling in the pit of her stomach exploded and spread throughout as she finally gave into the roller coaster of the desire that seemed to run laps through her body, making her warm before settling neatly into her abdomen. Lena hoisted her leg to hook loosely around his hip and lifted herself to sit on the lip of the sink instead of pressed against it, giving her a minor height boost. A small inkling of pain flashed through the veil of need, but it was all but squashed by the sensation.

His hand came to support her leg, fingertips curling under her thigh rather tightly, growling something inaudiable against her neck when the ammo clips that criss crossed his hips and waist prevented her from getting any closer, lest she wanted it to chafe. It was just as well he was wearing armour that was providing a cold surface for her heated, sticky skin - if she felt his toned muscles against her Lena doubted she could've kept some sense within her.

Her cheek came to rest flush against the side of his head, murmuring shakily; "W-We shouldn't.."

Because it was **now** her mind was deciding to make her feel guilty for her choice by bringing up thoughts of violating ethical conduct and Jesse McCree, of all the damnedest things. He was her _superior_ – true, not technically as far as the public was concerned where he was just another agent, but there was only so many rules that can be bent before they break, and she attributed her thoughts bringing Jesse into the equation as a below-the-belt punch.

In one quick moment, he had pulled up from her neck to capture her lips in a heated kiss that left her dazed and rattled her thoughts that Lena could not believe he had done the action so seamlessly. It was a demanding, possessive one that said the response for him: he was fully aware of the rules and no, he _didn't_ care. She struggled even to keep up with the sloppy exchange, as it appeared he didn't initially have the intention of kissing her, but went along with it anyway. He returned to conquering her neck, leaving a variety of marks that were going to last, leaving her wide-eyed and stunned, tongue wetting her lips where his chapped ones had been just seconds before.

It happened so quickly that she wished she had been aware that he was going to do something like that and would have happily responded in turn. Her hands released the untamed region of his hair and ghosted down the sleek armour that protected his back, frowning slightly at it's presence, until the tips of her digits came to caress the buckle of the belts that held his ammo. She toyed with the clasp, pondering if she should remove it, while Gabriel's other hand was cheekily beginning to work it's way up under her shirt.

However, in a rare moment of lucidity amidst the heavy passionate moment, she realised he was not going to stop, and as much as in that very instance she wanted to continue with it, Lena knew it was happening far too fast, too quickly. With much regret and equal relief, her accelerator whirred up and dragged her back through time to the bed, causing Gabriel to stumble slightly and steady himself using the sink.

A stifling silence settled between the two as the Blackwatch commander had yet to turn and face her, and the back of her head bumped against the door frame as she shut her eyes and gave a long, drawn out sigh. She really hadn't wanted to do that, but..

"We shouldn't." she repeated. "Not now." Equally just as cryptic, but she noticed him bob his head slightly.

".. Mhm." Finally, he responded. "I let myself get carried away."

It came out as a blunt statement than a confession. Reyes was not the most emotionally capable man in terms of being able to handle them – his anger was intense and in short-lived bursts just as much as his quick moments of joy, though most of the time he was just – surly. Yet it was clear that he indeed made the same decision Tracer had and let his feelings control his actions than his reason. It was brief, but incredibly pleasurable.

"I did too." admitted her, hands running through frazzled hair and lips taut with a frown. He said nothing to that, and turned. He looked just the same as if he had just walked in, and she was envious at the level of control he exuded despite saying otherwise. He passed her without another word, gathering his gloves and coat, draping the latter article of clothing over his arm and gave her a short nod.

"I appreciate you taking the time to sort something as trivial out as these wounds," he stated, as if he hadn't just had her up against the sink and lavishing her neck with feverish bites. She stared at him. "Goodnight."

Lena gaped, watching him leave without another word, abruptly, all with a content smile. How on earth did he manage to have the upper-hand in something she didn't even realise? She then recalled, with annoyance, that she hadn't even asked him about how he got the cut in the first place. She had been so wrapped up in such silly tiny instances.. which led onto something far bigger and _potentially_ dangerous.

With a groan, she threw herself onto the bed, face smashed into her pillow as the morning was going to be _**hell.**_

* * *

 _ **Note:** I'm in shipping hell with these two. Lena, you poor girl, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. The next chapter is going to give some serious mood whiplash, but, I'll say no more than that. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. **  
**_

 _Side, shout out to Ekurman and Villains1 for the continued support & reviews._


	7. Chapter 7

Jesse was rather enjoying the surreal dream involving some kind of diner or coffee shop when he was abruptly awoken by the sound of his door slamming back into the wall; proceeded by a voice that was far worse than any alarm, as if he was hard wired to respond immediately to the source of such a rumbling cadence.

"I want you up in five minutes, boy." barked Gabriel, arms crossed as he remained in the doorway.

Grouchily, the young adult cracked open a bloodshot eye to scrounge up a rough glare for his commander, only to wince at the light filtering through his figure and hitting against his sensitive eyes. He mumbled something that was undecipherable due to his thick, southern drawl and his sleepy state, rolling his head as it felt heavier than usual, chin touching his bare chest as his hands sloppily groomed his wild bed head of hair.

He smacked his lips, tossing the covers only to realise that he was in nothing but his boxers and his hand shot out to grab the flung blanket to cover himself back up haphazardly. That was certainly one way to chase away the lasting sleep. Whomever had dragged him back here had appeared to remove his clothes, try in futility to find his pyjamas (judging by the mess of them on the floor) and just conceded to let him sleep in nothing but his skivvies. The memories of the bar and a drink with Lena stirred into his mind, and the thought that the perky woman had done all this brought the silliest grin to his lips.

"I don't know you." muttered the commander, faking embarrassment for him, but satisfied that his protégée was awake and wouldn't fall back asleep. He left him to dress in peace as Jesse stretched, yawned and scratched idly at the hair on his chest.

"You know me plenty, sir!" he called after him, his silly grin widening to an indecent level. "I didn't mean t'scare you off, I can give you a real show if you want!"

He was rewarded with some agitated yelling in Spanish, to which he chuckled heartily at, sobering up quickly when the action caused the headache in his mind to pound harder. He winced, pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning quietly. Next time, he would try and moderate the amount he drunk, or at least go for weaker stuff. He was out like a light after that combat simulation – as usual he was oblivious to his health and hadn't realised how fatigued he truly was.

Jesse rummaged around into the pile of clothes by his bed before recognizing a few pieces of his Blackwatch attire, slowly making up the uniform as he went along. While he knew Gabriel wanted him out of the room by now and having breakfast at a set amount of time – he noted strangely how that man followed a schedule of all things, in the most flexible branch of the organization – but he stunk of alcohol and Gabriel would appreciate a clean agent even if he was not a punctual one. Hopefully.

By the time he had showered, dressed, fixed his hair only to mess it up with donning his hat and walk all the way down to the mess hall, he was, needless to say, late. Many of the soldiers had already ate and were off for morning exercise or other routine jobs Reyes had them doing. The aforementioned commander predicted his boy's lateness and slid over a plate of eggs, sausage and bacon that he saved for him, casually reclining on the bench himself with a few scattered reports and a cup of black coffee.

"Aw, you saved this for lil' ol' me? I didn't know you cared." he thanked Reyes in his own way with respectful nod, tucking into his meal. Gabriel scoffed, briefly stopping everything he was doing just so he could roll his eyes at McCree and shoot him with a benign glare.

"I'll start thinking you're trying to flirt with me if you don't stop, McCree." he said. "It won't end well. I'm out of your league."

It had come out so flatly that the poor boy choked on the bacon he was munching on, repeatedly thumping his chest and feeling like he hacked up a lung in the process. He swiped one of the nearby napkins, spitting out the offending piece of gristle as he balled it up and tossed it towards the bin. Unfortunately, it fell short of it's mark, and he cleared his throat once more, ignoring the miss.

Gabriel only had to perk an eyebrow to get him laughing again, and Jesse was starting to believe that maybe the drunkenness from the previous night had not yet subsided. He winced once more at the sound of his loud chortling, calming down to a much more manageable crooked smirk that would not draw suspicion.

"Naw, I'm more of a _ladies_ man, if you catch my drift." he told with a cheeky wink, making quick work of his food. McCree didn't realise how hungry he was until he started eating. It made him wonder if he remembered to even eat the other night, and decided it was better just not to think about it. He was sure people like Mercy had a radar for that sort of thing, and the last thing he wanted was to bother her about menial issues.

"You couldn't charm a woman even if I told you how to."

" _Lena_ seems to think I'm plenty charming." Jesse pointed out in a small huff, missing the way his commander tensed up and his glare was a lot more vicious than it was previously, but the cowboy always attributed it to the man merely having a rough face, or that he looked as if he was angry all the time.

"Lena is pitying you." he smoothly recovered, sipping his coffee and sharply signing off a document and setting it aside for another one, tone sounding very much like he should not continue with what he was about to say, yet much like the Blackwatch leader, McCree could be just as emotionally blind and didn't know when to back off.

Jesse forced a pouting look to his lips that was not endearing in the slightest, drinking his own coffee – which thank the heavens had milk and, shamefully, two sugars in – before settling down and resting one hand on his belly, the other removing his hat to ruffle with wild, untamed locks that were not unlike the pilot they were discussing.

"Awwh, come on now. Give me some credit, sir." he contested, then moved on more wistfully, cheek resting in the palm of his hand as he looked elsewhere. "Lena's a real sweetie, though. I don't know if she finds my jokes funny but she always laughs at them in _that_ laugh that is just full of **life.** You ever notice that?"

"I can't say I _have._ " Reyes lied, brows drawing down to slice the younger male with a critical regard that of course, went unnoticed. He pen stalled upon the form he was filling, choosing instead to watch Jesse entertain himself with his thoughts. He twirled it around his fingers until the butt of the pen came to rest on the paper and devoted his attention to the other. "What do you see in her?"

"Happiness I've never been able to have." he admits, albeit a little quieter, softer. Almost ashamed to say as much, hand subconsciously raising from his belly to gingerly rub the permanent _Deadlock Rebel_ tattoo on his right arm, a constant reminder of his sinful past.

"She's like a hurricane, a flurry of wild, unrestrained passion. Doesn't seem the kind of person to let any shit get her down, and I really admire that."

" – She is _off limits_." cut in the Blackwatch commander scornfully, suddenly, startling Jesse into finally realising the intimidating glare that had been set on him the moment his mouth had been running about the woman. He jabbed his half-empty cup at the boy in gesture, leaning forward partially and causing the other to imperceptibly back away.

"Remember what you are, McCree. You're the scum _nobody_ wanted to save until _I_ came along. I figure you haven't even told her about the Deadlocks – she's a Clearwatch type through and through and I doubt she'd be happy to know what you've done." he ' _helped_ ' refresh his memory, a slight hiss seeping into his commanding tone. Jesse clutched at his tattooed arm just a little tighter as he discerned how Gabriel was sounding a _little_ possessive, though what was surprising was he did not know if it was over Lena or _him._ Or both.

Then, he added gentler yet firmly. "You can't afford to get attached to someone in our line of work. There's a reason why you're Blackwatch, and she's Overwatch."

"Yes, sir." grumbled McCree, chastened by his scold and donned his hat to cast a shadow over his eyes, finger toying with the edge of his white cup. "I _do_ appreciate all you've done for me, Reyes. I just aint the type to be sayin' it every day, you know?"

Gabriel nodded, relaxing a fraction. "I understand. Just don't forget."

The cowboy stifled a yawn behind his hand, massaging his temple briefly as the headache persisted. He gathered up his plate and mug, catching Reyes' one as it slid towards him and headed towards the kitchen, depositing the cutlery messily into the sink. At least he wasn't on cleaning duty. He briefly checked around him before rummaging through one of the cabinets and grinning in success as he found some aspirin.

It'd take a short moment before they would kick in, but the instantaneous relief of knowing it will soothed him. He returned to the mess hall, noting his commander's absence and shrugged. Maybe he could get a quick smoke before training.

As he was approaching the door, he stumbled to a halt when Gabriel poked his head in; hastily buttoning his coat with one hand and tugging the hoodie up with the other. He seemed put off by something, though Jesse was just glad he was not the source of his anger any more. His tone was terse.

"Unexpected development," he explained, and Jesse grimly knew what to do. The darker skinned man moved and allowed the cowboy to barrel past, the former keeping up with a quick gait as McCree threw open his locker and began pulling out his armour. Reyes continued in similar fashion, taking a moment to check over his shotguns as was protocol. "Talon's finally struck in Dorado. They're attempting to steal the fusion core that powers the plants."

"Let me guess," Jesse added ruefully, snapping the buckle of his belt and rolled the chamber of his trusty revolver. "They're making it look like Omnics are doing it?"

"Yes, actually." Gabriel glanced to him. "That was oddly perceptive of you."

"They're terrorists, first and foremost. Just seems like the most logical conclusion." He did not let the rare instance of Reyes' praise go to his head as the situation was too worrisome. It wasn't the first time Talon had tried something like this to inspire fear, and with the growing tensions between Omnics and humans again, one couldn't go a single day without an individual preaching about the second coming of the Omnic war.

The cowboy continued to fill his pouches of ammo, clipping on a few to the straps of his belt for his risky rolling reloads, and let his gun rest neatly by the side of his hip, ready to be drawn at a moments notice. His commander wasted no time striding down the hallway when he was finished, sticking his communication device in his ear and embedded the nano-microphone into the inside of his collar, tossing back a pair for Jesse, who fumbled but managed to catch it nevertheless.

"Overwatch's not all over this?" he asked, tilting his head up slightly to regard Reyes. They were of equal height (much to Gabriel's chagrin, as the westerner was younger) but his armoured boots offered a few inches over the other. The darker skinned man bit back a harsh laugh, a cruel grin spreading instead.

"They'll be there to take the credit when we're done." he testily stated. "But, no. Overwatch can't be seen as responding to terrorists or it will validate them as an organized threat. That's why they have us do all the dirty work, in _any_ way we see fit."

Jesse took note of his flinty stare, but made no further comment as he ducked his head and entered the aircraft, crashing into the first seat he could find next to a handful of soldiers. There weren't many – apparently enough to make up a strike team. Gabriel always liked to work with less numbers.

He pulled over the protective barrier, arms reclining over it casually as the Blackwatch leader remain standing, holding onto the overhead handle and counting his men. Satisfied, he pounded the door to the cockpit, giving the signal to go. The aircraft rumbled, but otherwise began to crawl down the runway and pick up speed as it went.

"Wake me up when we get to Dorado," mumbled Jesse, tipping his hat over his face and relishing in the darkness, where he could only feel the motions of the airplane. Gabriel allowed him to do so, as he knew from chatting with Angela and ' _accidentally glancing_ ' at his records that he was not the biggest fan of flying.

"Aye."

* * *

 _ **Note:** bounces in excitement - Okay, this is part 1 of 3. It's a little shorter than most but it has a nice bit of set up. I hope you enjoy it!_

 _I do also very very very lowkey ship McCree and Reyes but will it happen in this fic? You'll have to find out._


	8. Chapter 8

Unless a hefty amount of alcohol was ingested or simply sheer exhaustion overtook him, Jesse didn't often get much sleep, and the nauseous feeling of the flight, coupled with the irrational fear and paranoia surrounding it did little to help him drift off. He remained to keep his head bowed low, face buried against the soft red of his poncho and vision covered by his hat, even if knee bobbed up and down rapidly and easily gave away his fidgeting.

Eventually, he surrendered to ease himself up, fingers rubbing against his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Mercy had always got on his case about his body's internal clock and sleeping habits, but there was little he could do. Life as a notorious gang member and living in constant fear that the next day could be the last took it's toll on the gunman. There were times when he was required to go long stretches without sleep to react at a moments notice when the _policía_ were getting pretty close to their safe houses.

His hand moved from his face to his hairline and nudged his hat up, fixing it to rest neatly, gaze sweeping across the strike team. Some were engaged in quiet conversation with their nearby passenger, others were silent or were dutifully checking their weapons for what must have been the umpteenth time since the aircraft took off.

The Blackwatch commander seemed content in whispering to himself, though Jesse knew he was talking into the hidden microphone embedded into his shirt's collar, readjusting the earpiece until he was satisfied with the set up. From the few words he could catch, he seemed to be speaking in his native tongue, to which Jesse only had rudimentary understanding of. Words such as _'map,' 'visuals,'_ and _'intel,'_ were ones he could translate.

"How much longer?" the cowboy asked, throwing the question out there for anyone to answer.

"An hour, tops." the woman next to him replied, too focused on the maintenance of her weapon to notice the winning smile Jesse flashed in thanks, only for it to drop when he saw she didn't catch it. Luckily, nobody else did, and he was saved from momentary embarrassment.

For McCree, the hour seemed to drag into an eternity, and he resisted the urge to jump in joy when the pilot's voice filtered out over the intercom to announce their arrival into Dorado. Normally they would land near-ish to the Blackwatch outposts within the country, though in this case it was simply too far from the objective, and they decided to utilize ropes and parachutes instead to drop in. He noted the dusky tones within the sky, a delightful blend of orange, pink and black, speckled with stars.

Time zones and jet lag certainly didn't help his case in sleeping, either way.

"We're taking no prisoners tonight," Gabriel informed his unit, taking lead and holding onto tightly of the overhead railings as the doors to the dropship opened and the wind hastily rushed in. His voice rose to compensate for the noise of the turbulence.

"We will go in, neutralize the threat and get out. Sombra believes the Talon squad to be a mixture of soldiers and demolition experts. Expect pulse and heavy pulse rifles. McCree and I will flank from the side – Vargas, Grant, you two will take the riot shields and the rest of you will follow them. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they shouted in unison.

"Good. Let's not waste any more time."

* * *

The series of power plants were an unforgiving labyrinth of hallways, rooms and multiple floors. Thankfully, Gabriel had the foresight to contact someone with enough technical expertise to pull up the plans of the factory and present a far simpler map to follow. There was signs of an intruder, Talon or otherwise scattered around in the area – smashed windows, trashed rooms and states of disorder all around.

Each step was a tense moment as they were slowly getting closer to the enemy's territory, complete radio silence between the two of them as the only form of communication was complex hand gestures – any member of covert op group were well versed in such sign language – and small indications with the head.

Gabriel threw out his arm, halting Jesse as the cowboy pressed his back firmly against the wall, Peacekeeper raised and eyes alert. The noise of thudding grew, until it became apparent it was happening the floor above. For the sake of safety, they waited until the noise had subsided before continuing on, the commander drawing out his twin shotguns and keeping them close to his chest.

The duo came to a stand still as they came across the body of a young tanned male further down in the hallway. Reyes shuffled the toe of his boot under the man's shoulder and gingerly kicked him to his back. It was a fresh kill, blood splatters dotting the unknown man's bare chest where a series of bullet holes littered him. The biggest factor in identifying him came from the faint white decal of bones painted upon his face and arms.

Undeniably, he was apart of the _Los Muertos_ gang. If Gabriel had to estimate (and he hated _guessing_ ), the use of lawless thugs threw off the authorities as to the true driving force behind the terrorist attack, though if their goal was to frame the Omnics, they did not pick very suitable assistance. It was hard to tell exactly what Talon's true goal was – any of the men they had captured for information were found dead the next morning, all never saying a useful word.

Judging by the furrow of Jesse's brows and the frown tugging on his lips, he was likely following a similar train of thought. Reyes gave a short order with a downward sweep of his hands regarding the body, and McCree begrudgingly complied, searching it for any useful items or information.

His search came up negative, and he absent mindedly shook his hands, as if to remove the awful feeling of a cold body – even if he wearing gloves, they felt as if they did little to stop the contact. He didn't mind the killing part so much, it was the other necessities that turned his stomach. Practical and invaluable, sure, but disgusting all the same. It hit too close to home to his time as a Deadlock Rebel, a time he'd rather forget.

They had to move on, or they wouldn't be able to provide timely support. There was the distant noise of industrial drilling deeper into the bowels of the factory, though there was no sound of an engaged gunfight. The main team still had yet to arrive, and thus the duo continued down, manoeuvring around the body.

Thankfully for them, they did not run across any more instances of bodies, although the sounds of construction was growing louder and louder the further within the twisted, spiralling halls. Voices could be heard, setting the two back into a tense readiness, using the narrow tunnel-like halls to their advantage and hiding out of sight in the connected corridors. Of course – patrols. Gabriel steadily holstered his twin weapons, instead drawing out a thin, metallic garrotte.

The brief moment the black clad armoured visage of a Talon operative came into view, the commander pounced, serrated wire embedding into the fleshy neck of the guard and drawing him back out of sight, holding his struggling form against himself as the only sounds were gurgling protests that were drowned out by the drilling. He struggled, though Reyes was not dissuaded by blows that glanced across his slick protective armour. The strength of the patrol man began to wane as he succumbed to suffocation or the blood drawn from the puncturing garrotte drowned him – whichever came first. The kill had been cold and precise; just how he liked to operate.

Jesse believed that his time spent in Blackwatch and as an illegal arms dealer would've desensitized to the reality of covert ops long ago, but witnessing the slow, painful but necessary death in such a way still sickened him. He risked breathing an outward sigh – he must be going soft, or something of the sort to let things like that bother him once again.

Gabriel dragged the dead man into the room nearest to him, finding an inconspicuous place to hide the body before shoving the stained wire back into one of the pouches clipped onto his utility belt. His gaze drifted briefly to McCree, noting a distorted expression marring his face for a brief instant before it was replaced by a more nondescript, neutral look.

It wasn't long until they finally came upon a large, hexagonal room that had a multitude of hazardous and no access symbols dotting the walls and doors; evidently ignored by the fact the said door had been blown off it's hinges. Light fixtures lined the walkways like lacing ribbons, however inside the room itself the sheer energy of the fusion core stored further in, connected to the grid, provided enough illumination.

It was a faint blue, casting an eerie glow upon the backs of the Talon operatives, juxtaposed with the relatively more casual and bare gangsters of Los Muertos, likely to combat the heat of the country. Needless to say, the fusion core itself did also turn the adjourning room into something similar to a blast furnace. The architects and engineers did have the foresight to make sure feed the heat to somewhere else, making the room habitable, just uncomfortable.

Straining his eyes, Gabriel noticed the kneeling demolition experts trying to rig up a charge to blow the heavily reinforced thick lead door to the fusion core wide open. He saw almost all of them seemed to have some form of radioactive protection; be it full body suits or otherwise, and equipment ready to transport the core.

McCree looked to Reyes as they waited, until finally his gaze locked onto his, and slowly raised his hand to cover the lower half of his face, followed by donning a half-face gas mask.

Jesse nodded in understanding, wasting no time in taking up a cylinder canister, attaching a respirator in the process as he pulled the pin, drew back his arm and tossed in the deadly choking gas into the fray. By the time at least one of them reacted to the grenade bouncing along the floor and innocently rolling to them, it was too late – it had exploded into a release of fumes, gas and smoke, and screams and agitated yelling of all kinds.

Immediately after, the strike team burst through the other entrance, letting lose a flurry of bullets. All sounds of construction was replaced by the grating noise of gunfire, the entire room full of nothing but harmful gas and cloudy smoke. Underlining the din, there were coughing fits, and several Talon soldiers hitting the floor in futility, eyes streaming and curling up as every breath drawn was like heaving fire. They made quick and easy executions for Jesse to dispense accurate justice.

The ones that were covered by protective suits were unaffected by the grenade and fought back in turn, diving towards the fallen tables and desks littering the room to utilize as cover. Gabriel stalked into the fog, shotguns drawn and picking off straggling targets one by one with a single blast – that was all it took from his powerful weapons at such a close range. Some attempted to focus fire on him, but the smoke provided excellent camouflage against his ebony armour, making him effectively blend in.

A stray bullet – presumably from his side – hit into the jury rigged explosives near the door, causing the device to beep alarmingly loudly. All fire ceased for a single, solitary moment as they sought to move away from the detonators. Another moment passed, and thankfully, nothing happened. After sharing a collective sigh of relief, the gunfight resumed as normal.

"Watch your fire!" growled Gabriel over the radio, voice muffled by his gas mask, adding a creepy quality to his otherwise rumbling baritone. He twisted around, barrel of his shotgun slamming into the back of a Talon agent and making short work of her before moving onto the next. There was no stopping the commander's onslaught, his strikes surprisingly precise for his choice of weapon.

As they mowed down the soldiers, the more inexperienced demolition experts had little choice. They were nowhere near the level of combat prowess Blackwatch had under it's belt, and with both entrances blocked there was no hope for fleeing. Surrendering was not in Talon's policy, either. Thus, they became little more than sitting ducks when attention was turned to them.

One fanatic had the bright idea to utilize the explosives they were given as a last stand. The majority of the smoke had cleared at this point, leaving only an acrid smell permeating the air. As the suited man tossed forth an explosive charge, causing the agents to hunker behind the blast-proof shields.

He hesitated the detonation just long enough for two bullets from McCree's revolver to cleanly shoot through once in his wrist, and once in his arm, causing him to drop it in agony and a scream of pain to rip from their throat. He was quickly silenced by Gabriel, though the former Deadlock member didn't believe it was out of _mercy._

Following his colleagues example, the explosives expert gripped a hold of a strangely designed bomb and charged, barrelling into Jesse and screwing it into his left arm. The tanned American, disgruntled, smacked the butt of his gun into the assailants forehead, dazing him just long enough to plant a bullet straight between the eyes. The body fell slack against him, and he roughly pushed it off, then looked to just what he had done.

Gabriel surveyed the carnage, nodding to himself. Numerous amounts of bodies rested upon the floor, with blood and bile – an after effect of the gas – coating along with it. He cared little as he waded through the corpses and effortlessly disarmed the half-finished explosive device rigged around the lead door, letting the other soldiers take care of it. He pressed a finger to the communications device into his ear, and spoke. "Targets neutralized. Requesting evac."

"S-Sir.." tentatively, Jesse's voice grabbed his attention, pitch higher in terror. That alone got him to swiftly turn his head. "We have a _problem_."

Reyes stared at the burrowed bomb in his protégé's arm, seeing thin lines of crimson trickle out from the puncture wounds where the device had pierced. McCree's eyes were wide in controlled fear; teeth gritted as the pain was like a parasite feeding on his skin. He watched as the younger man tried to pull it out of him, only for it to tighten the more he protested. Eventually, he yelped and had to let go. It pulsated an ominous red.

"Shit." his commander gracefully said, rushing to his side and inspecting it, all while trying to figure out how to disarm it. " _Shit._ How the _hell_ did they get a hold of pulse bombs? Sombra did not mention this."

Pulse bombs were notoriously designed – they were insidiously sticky, and once attached to a surface the only way of it being removed was detonation. Though they lacked strength in a large radius, they ideally worked in taking out smaller, priority targets. As far as Gabriel knew, they were only something Overwatch had – particularly in Lena's arsenal to solidify her as an ideal flanker – and not easily manufactured.

He blanched. There was those reports of Overwatch safe houses and armoury being raided. He'd have hoped that the larger, sister organization were not ignorant enough to leave something so devastating so unprotected. Clearly, his opinion of them were too high.

"I really don't think that matters right now!" squeaked McCree. He didn't bloody care how it happened, it was on him, it was beeping, and the generous countdown was like watching a timer to his death. He worryingly glanced from the bomb to his commander who remained to be calm, though his brows were deeply furrowed and judging by the twitch of his jaw – he wasn't.

"Boy, I need you to remain calm." instructed Reyes. The younger man was more than willing to comply up until the Blackwatch leader drew out a combat knife, and a million morbid thoughts flashed through his mind. He scrambled back, flinging his good arm in front of him. Panic strained the muscles in his face and it was clear that he was frightened, masked by a furious anger.

"The _fuck_ do you think you're gonna do?!" he rightfully demanded, backing away each time Gabriel tried to advance. Expectantly, McCree felt like a caged animal with the situation; desperation bleeding into his tone that was pitched high as his gaze kept flickering from knife to bomb, watching the device steadily increase in it's flashing, much like his laboured breathing.

"I'm going to root it out," Reyes explained, shockingly patient. He noticed that his forceful tactic really wasn't working, and switched it up, his usual gruffness dying to something a little more soothing. With each word, he slowly stepped that little bit closer " _Hijo_ , your life has been in my hands since I picked you out of that gang. I am not going let you get harmed _now_ , so _please,_ give me your arm."

McCree looked as if he was considering it, the edges of his eyes twitching and made himself look away from the knife, to his commander's concerned face. In his fit of distress, he nervously laughed, catching Gabriel off guard as the frenzied beeping reached both their ears. Through the pain, the hopelessness and hysteria, a lucid clarity washed over him. It **was** going to explode.

"Sir," he said, melancholic smile touching his lips and causing Reyes to halt just out of the blast radius. He did have a choice to make, even with what few precious seconds were left. Perhaps it was stupidity or heroic, but he was damn well going to make sure that nobody else got harmed for his mistake. Before Gabriel could stop him, he twisted and dived away from the unit. Reyes opened his mouth –

The pulse bomb exploded.

* * *

 _ **Note:**_ _Okay so, uh, remember when I said mood whiplash? Yeah. This chapter is dark, and I've also bumped the rating to 'M', just to be on the safe side. I don't know if the violence is that graphic, but the 3rd part to wrap up the.. uh.. what do we even call this? The Jesse McCree Arc? Lets go with that xD_

 _The 3rd part is obviously going to deal with the aftermath. I'm not 100% sure how detailed I want to get on the nasty result of having a pulse bomb explode on Jesse, but we'll see. I know this probably seems pretty slow paced but I've got ideas I wanna tell, y'know?_

 _Orrnv olnh L'yh ehhq phqwlrqhg. Exw L wklqn d pruh surplqhqw uroh lv uhtxluhg. Lv wkdw d froohfwlrq ri gudeeohv L vhh? - Sombra  
_


	9. Chapter 9

"What would you do if.. um – _hypothetically_ speaking – you started to find a superior or a co-worker attractive?"

Sapphire-coloured hues cut across from the records she was regarding to the lounging adult on the floating bed, lips twitching into a knowing smirk as Angela refrained from commenting, only perking a thin, manicured eyebrow at the nimble agent, who was desperately trying not to look at the doctor and entertained herself by tossing a small rounders ball into the air and catching it.

There were few patients that Mercy personally allowed to crash in her office for extended periods of time; usually she resigned to accept the more quiet ones, though she made a notable exception for Lena Oxton. After the Slipstream incident, the Swiss doctor often pushed the extra mile for her, as if to make up for the lack of ability in dealing with her unique condition.

Thank the world for Winston and his brilliance.

She could see Tracer grow increasingly embarrassed at asking such a question, lower lip drawn to be bitten and redness filling her cheeks and spread down the back of her neck like an awkward sunburn. Finally, Angela hummed, twirling the pen in her hand as she set the record down and deigned to entwine her fingers to create a bridge for her chin to rest upon.

"I don't see anything wrong with that. It is normal to find the aesthetics of a person pleasing." she said, then added rather impishly; "Of course, if I was to find sexual gratification -"

"Please!" quickly interjected Lena, the cherry pigment of her cheeks offset by the pinched, pale look that crossed her. She inwardly cursed at herself – she was not a prude person, yet she felt no more than the young teen back in her academy under the intense scrutiny of Doctor Ziegler. "Don't word it like that."

The doctor chuckled, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the motion. Angela was fairly young, but she was a kind and mirthful person, and already small little lines creasing her face for all her laughter made her all the more charming and endearing, even if she had her own little fun with cases like these.

Sobering up, Angela answered a little more seriously. "If I had these thoughts, I would ask myself if it is merely propinquity or true emotional, mental and physical attraction."

Tracer's bushy brow shot up into the untamed unknown (read: her hair) and turned her head towards the serene grace of the medic, shuffling around on the bed to have the side of her head rest in the palm of her hand, supported by her elbow. "I think you just went psychologist on me again. Propo- _what_?"

Mercy had the modesty to bashfully duck her head, a pink flush taking to the tip of her nose. "Propinquity. To simplify a social psychological concept; – a proximity or.. or a close kinship. Agents see each other on a daily basis.. fight together, protect their lives.. goodness, we pretty much live together, too. It is practically inevitable something like that develops."

Lena found an intense interest in picking the invisible dirt out of her short, stubby fingernails, nibbling on her middle finger's nail as she mulled the concept in her head. That would make sense in explaining a few things, though it felt.. lacklustre, or an incomplete answer. It didn't feel like it was right in her situation, but it was a small step in the right direction.

There was more than just an attraction – Gabriel had played a pretty key figure in helping her in the journey to overcome the intense feelings towards the chronal accelerator and the disassociation, even if his method of doing so amounted to tough love. It wasn't perfect, but it was his way and in small doses it was just the right kick up the arse she needed when she dangerously wallowed in too much self-pity. Other times, he was content to let her simply hold on, mumble in rare dulcet tones of a language she didn't understand. It matter little – the cadence of his voice was what she listened to, not his words.

She deducted – with mild jest that she should be called Lena Holmes – that there was more at play than the principal Mercy proposed.

And that was not even getting into the case of Jesse McCree.

With an exasperated sigh, Tracer tossed one arm dramatically over her face, covering her eyes as she tossed and flopped around on the bed, now residing on her back and away from the inquisitive piercing blue eyes of the acclaimed miracle worker.

Lena knew she tended to go a little over the top when it came to her emotions; like a tornado she encompassed; she relished in the intense joy and wallowed deeply in the pit of despair. With begrudging knowledge, it'd be only a matter of time before she worked herself sick over something so menial, or take the other approach of trying in vain to bury it down. There were few things she simply rather not deal with – it _complicated_ matters.

The funny thing was, she suspected Gabriel to be completely unaffected by his own actions; likely the last thing that'd cross his mind unless specifically mentioned, whereas she was in Mercy's office, trying to secretly seek out advice without being too obvious.

Unfortunately, subtlety was not her strongest suit. Angela's ever present inquiring stare lanced through her the moment she breathed a bedraggled sigh.

"You are a very compassionate person, Lena." the doctor began gently. "You feel things more intensely than perhaps others do – and that is not a bad thing. It shows how much empathy you exude. But I think you just need to work on restraining such intensity at times."

"I think I showed plenty of _restraint_." Tracer muttered ruefully under her breath, mind set on that night of drunken haze. Then, louder, she answered. "We are talking hypothetically, right, love? Cause, I am in now way feeling any of this. Hah."

"Right," replied Angela, sounding unconvinced. The light sound of the leather ball slapping against skin sounded once more as Lena began to toss it in the air and catch it, only to spit out a short expletive when she fumbled and it smacked into her face. Mercy shook her head, neatly storing away some files and pulled out the swear jar. Immediately the agent tossed a couple of pound coins into the odd collection of growing currency, though most notably American dollars.

"This is extortion." complained Tracer.

"My office. My rules." She tucked the jar away back under her desk. "And it is not extortion."

"Same thing, I'm sure."

Timely, the emergency communication channel burst into a series of unintelligible static, red light flashing in warning and halting Mercy's reply. A flash of concern streaked across her face before taking a hold of the ear piece and microphone, all merriment dropping in her tone for a cool professionalism that made her seem twenty years older.

"What is your emergency?" A pause, likely to listen, before stress started to work it's way into her muscles, fingers curling. "I can't – you're speaking – _Gabriel._ Repeat, this time _slower,_ please."

At the mention of the Blackwatch commander, Lena stared anxiously over to Angela, watching as her stern business like persona melted away into a shocked twist of grief, hand flying to her lips as her gaze briefly passed over Tracer and hurriedly tried to compose herself, if not for herself but not to alert the agent. Sadly, her mind was already going through a million thoughts.

" _Mein Gott._ " she whispered. "The local hospital have done all they can, but he needs to be brought back here. My technology will properly be able to stabilize him for surgery – It is _**not**_ their fault, Gabriel. The tissue would have likely become necrotic and began infesting his living, healthy tissue. They came to same conclusion I would have."

"Doc..?"

Her fingers tapped hastily on the keyboard, ignoring Lena. "I am sending word to prep the air ambulance as we speak. Get the tending anaesthesiologist to administer anaesthetic – I have just transferred a copy of his medical records. By the time I arrive, he should be sound asleep."

".. Ja. I will remain on the line." Mercy was quick to get to work, pulling out her Valkyrie suit as well as necessary items she believed she needed in the great medicine cabinet behind her. She did shoot an apologetic look over to Tracer's confused face, and briefly covered the microphone.

" _Mein liebster,_ I hate to have to ask this, but I would appreciate if you returned to the clinic at a later date."

"O-Of course, love." she murmured. "Are – is everything going to be fine?"

Angela offered a strained but convincing smile. "Go on now, little love. I must be on my way."

Mutely, Tracer watched as Mercy strode out of the office, commanding the nearby medical staff in German; all of them rushing around as she headed towards the helicopter bay atop the roof. The nagging curiosity and anxiety regarding the mystery patient settled like a rock in her stomach, but nevertheless she obeyed the doctor's request and left the clinic.

* * *

They had arrived back at the base in the dead of the night, the ambulance feeling a little more cramped than usual with the addition of Gabriel's squad standing by. It was a tense ride filled with silence, shattered by the vital monitors beeping calmly. Mercy's face was haggard, a complete juxtaposition from her usual angelic aura, dainty hand slipped into Jesse's slack one as she watched him intently.

In some absurd saving grace, it would be the best sleep he had ever gotten, especially during flight. His chest steadily rose and fell with his breathing; his face was relaxed as all the pain had been sapped away by numbness. The local hospital had already stripped him of his armour and he now rested in a some basic white trousers and hospital gown, with a distinct lack of a limb filling through the left sleeve. She had autonomously checked over his body as well, and grimaced the moment she saw severe burns scorched into his left side.

Subconsciously, she squeezed his hand, head bowed. Jesse was far too young to have such injuries. It clutched at her chest and tugged at her heart.

Reyes on the other hand, remained stone-faced and brooding like a bubbling storm. From the rigid posture and contained, tranquil fury, Mercy could tell he was not happy for the situation and had taken some of his anger out in the hospital at Dorado, even if they truly did all they could.

The attending nurses were a blessing as they helped ease the floating bed out of the ambulance when it touched down and hastily steered it towards the emergency operating room where Mercy could work her miracles. She had a solution to the amputation, but she'd rather have McCree's consent before doing anything. Judging by Gabriel's recount of what he had been like at the hospital, however, he simply was not in the correct state of mind to be making _any_ choices. The shock of what happened likely was a bit too much.

Naturally, Tracer could not stay away for long, and what felt like hours since she had heard the helicopter return back to base and Athena's confirmation, she strayed towards the doctor's domain, noting the flux of staff nurses and otherwise in a flurry of activity. The main emergency room was blocked off with bulky security guards posted at the doors, only allowing medical personnel entry.

The waiting room was open, thankfully, and she spotted the form of Gabriel Reyes hunched over the pathetic plastic chair, arms loosely thrown over his knees and a scowl burrowed deeply onto his face. She didn't want to startle him, so refrained from blinking over and instead cleared her throat to grab his attention.

His glare flickered up, though softened when it landed on the troubled youthful visage of the Overwatch agent. He eased back into his chair; only to mutter something under his breath and run a hand through tightly woven locks of hair now matted with sweat from the mission. "Oxton. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question." she responded, joining him by the string of chairs. "I was relaxing in her office when Mercy got the call. _Your_ call. What's going on?"

It was hard to bear looking at her uneasy face, innocently expressive and pleading with her liquid brown hues, and tried to force a confident smile to his lips, though the sentiment did not reach his flinty gaze. "I'm sorry, _mi dulce._ It's confidential. I'm sure you will find out sooner or later."

"Then you shouldn't have a problem telling me, love." rightly Tracer pointed out, then softly reached out to grip his hand, sensing just how tensely knitted his muscles were with the stress and pressure. He withheld a sigh, engulfing her slim hand with his calloused, rougher one.

"You've always told me it's better to share the burden, less to carry yourself, y'know? You can't always be the one holding the weight."

"Don't use my own advice back on me," he grumbled, but conceded at one more stolen glance of her beseeching face. "There was.. an incident during a mission. One of my men got critically injured, and Mercy refuses to let me back into the operating room to see how he is doing."

"It's probably for the best. I've tried to watch her work, but it's all German to me." the agent tried to joke very lightly, to do anything to lighten the dour mood. It didn't seem to have any effect, and the weak, encouraging smile dropped as quickly as it came.

Their moment was interrupted as the doors to the waiting room flung open and revealed a very angry looking Ana Amari. Tracer had only heard rumours – nay, _**legends**_ – about the sniper's incomprehensible temper. It was a calculated, concentrated fury that burned with an intensity of a thousand suns, and it was all directed at Gabriel, the muscle in his neck twitching as he restrained himself wincing from the inevitable outburst to come.

Like she had been caught doing wrong, Tracer snapped at attention, putting as much distance between herself and Gabriel as possible, even if they were in acceptable levels of space to begin with. Her hands shamefully rested on her lap. She seemed to be invisible though as the second-in-command was entirely guided to the man.

"Debrief." she instructed. "Now."

"It can wait," the Blackwatch leader grounded out. "Mercy will be done any -"

"You are at best, _five_ hours behind schedule due to your extended delay in the mission location, a delay that would have been cleared if you radioed in to inform us of the circumstances, which you did **NOT**. Overwatch has been trying to get in contact with you the second you had not returned after the first hour." she boomed, gaze unerring and powerful. "So no, it cannot _**wait**_."

Tracer felt as if she was holding her breath when her vicious steel slowly turned to her.

"And you, Agent Oxton, have little reason to be here _at all._ I hope I do not have to remind you that you are a part of Overwatch and within your rank should have little to _no_ contact with Blackwatch at all." She flayed Gabriel with a heated look. "Something we will _also_ be discussing."

Reyes bristled, and it was by the sheer presence of Lena alone that his own rage was not unleashed. But, like always, he kept it down within him to fester into hatred that eventually would manifest. For now, he stood up, stalking after Ana's form as she turned on her heel to leave for the private conference.

Tracer exhaled deeply when the two overbearing wills had left, back of her head bumping against the tiled wall as she absent-mindedly ran a hand through her messy hair. She understood why Ana was jokingly considered to be in charge between her and Jack – she acted in a way that was necessary, even if she would end up to be resented for it.

Moments later, Angela stepped out of the room, wiping her brow with a small handkerchief and offering a tired smile. "The surgery is a success, Jesse will be -" she halted when she saw only Lena expectantly looking at her.

"Oh." a pause. "Gabriel did not wish to see the results?"

"Captain Amari.. _requested_ his appearance for a debrief." informed Tracer, the sarcasm laced in her tone regarding the 'request' obvious, but drained quickly as she looked to the double doors, now a confirmation as to who lied within. A small well of grief collected in the corners of her eyes as she mumbled ".. Can I see McCree?"

The moment hesitance became apparent on Mercy's face, Lena all but threw herself at the doctor, hands gripping her upper arms. "Love, please. I just.. I just want to see if he's all right. The past few hours have been literal _hell._ "

It seemed Gabriel wasn't the only one that had a hard time saying no to Tracer. Mercy heaved a great sigh. "I suppose so. But be mindful, he is asleep and I would prefer he remained that way for the rest of the night."

Lena wrapped the weary doctor in a huge embrace, uttering a multitude of gratitude before blinking into the room the second the door was held open for her. As McCree had been the only critically injured patient, it didn't take long to find him snoozing in his bed donned in a plain gown and hair pulled out of his face in a surprisingly endearing ponytail, IV hooked into his fleshy arm and –

She stared at the metallic prosthetic.

It was of basic design, not sporting anything too out of the ordinary with various joints to indicate great and realistic articulation. It was a nice chrome black, though was likely unfinished given the lack of skin hiding it or anything of the sort. She supposed that would be down to choice when McCree was a little more lucid.

With tentative steps, as if the wrong move would wake him up, she approached the bedside and quietly tugged the stool over to it, unable to take her eyes off of the replacement limb. Her heart shuddered at the sight of it, voice caught in her throat like a trapped knot and a great sadness rested on her shoulders. Before she had even realised it, she had placed on hand on her chronal accelerator, her own life support.

Lena empathised with his situation, and wanted nothing more than to turn back time to stop whatever had caused it. Sadly, she only had mastery of her own time and could not do such a thing, and tried to focus on just how blissful he looked resting. A stray lock of hair fell out of place, so she reached over to tuck it neatly away.

The moment the tip of her finger graced over his forehead, his hand rose and gripped weakly at her cheek. Patting to confirm she was indeed there, McCree draped an arm around her shoulders and haphazardly pulled her close; blinking rapidly as he struggled to open his eyes, before giving up to contently keep them closed. Tracer froze completely, eyes darting every which way. She tried to pull away, but his arm was quite the dead weight.

"'lo darlin'." he drawled thickly, tiredly.

"McCree," she addressed, all still trying to very carefully manoeuvre his arm off of her and failing spectacularly whilst containing her growing emotional state. Her voice cracked. "You should go back to sleep."

Jesse slurred something that suspiciously sounded like denial, but he was already off lightly snoring as sleep captured him. With a tiny bit of force, Lena yanked herself free, tried to fix her wild hair and mustered the courage to look at him once more. God, she felt like crying, but held on just enough composure to stop herself from doing so.

Anxiously, she stood up, though lingered at his bedside, debating with herself on an action. Eventually, Tracer settled for taking up his fleshy hand, pressing a small kiss to his knuckles and letting it rest back on the bed.

"Have pleasant dreams, Tex." she murmured to his sleeping form. "I'll catch you at the bar later, yeah?"

Lena left, leaving him to have a peaceful sleep full of blissful nothingness.

* * *

 ** _Note:_** _Seriously, kudos to everyone. Not only did Sombra's message get decoded within hours of the chapter's going up (well, lets be real, it was no salted shenanigans and Caesar ciphers are pretty easy to_ _brute force) but we had a few that correctly guessed the direction of how the bomb explosion was going to be like._

 _Anyone who has also read the Gabriel related chapters of Agents of Overwatch would also have guessed Ana's appearance and the direction this is slowly going towards regarding Ana's chastise of Tracer._

 _Tempestuous is less frequently updated than AoO but, I felt the need to wrap up this arc since I myself hate cliffhangers_

 _Thank you all for the continued support!_


	10. Chapter 10

The anger that festered like an infected wound bubbled incessantly in the pit of his stomach; making his blood feel five times warmer and his muscles twitching in impatience and tension. His hands had long since curled into fists, turning the usual dark tone of his flesh around his knuckles a few shades lighter with the action. The words that spewed from Ana's and Jack's words were nothing but white noise to Gabriel at this point, wanting nothing more than to wipe the disappointment and derogatory judgement from their face.

The worst part was he was aware of his brewing ire and his violent thoughts. They entertained him, make him ponder, how quickly their looks would drop to _fear_ if he simply pulled his guns and clicked the safety off.

Alas, he knew such temptations were forbidden, and he let them pass without a second thought over it, his restraint far greater than most people would give him credit for. After all, he was notorious for being recruited for his skill, not his personality.

" .. and are you even _listening_ to me?" disapprovingly, Jack questioned, regarding his once best friend with pursed lips. It sickened Gabriel how he still remained the pretty-poster boy even when trying to be anything other than photogenic. War hadn't treated the latino as good; he was scarred, ragged and worn, and not traditionally handsome compared to the pasty perfect complexion of the Strike Commander.

"No," he leered, lip curled to show a flash of white teeth. "My bullshit filter must have been on, _amigo_."

He swiftly punctuated his words by continuing; "The bigger issue at play here is how Talon got our pulse bombs. But you refuse to address this because.. _what_ , you get off on grilling me over some insignificant detail?"

Gabriel was inwardly satisfied when he infuriated Morrison to the point of being red-faced and scowling; though Ana remained the pinnacle of tranquil fire. Her gaze was far more effective into gaining his respect and attention than the posturing the commander tried, even if he did not agree to their line of questioning.

"An insignificant detail," coolly Amari played off him. "That could have been the cause of McCree's injury Had we known –"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ try and say _**I**_ am the reason he was hurt." He lashed out, viciously, palms now splayed across the desk in the conference room to leverage his weight, leaning forth in subconscious intimidation, but Ana was not cowed easily. His use of foul language was a pretty easy indicator of his emotional state; but it was mainly barking than biting – his rough cadence was imposing enough.

" _Had_ we _**known**_." she resumed as if he hadn't interrupted, never once breaking the eye-contact she had with him, showing her fearlessness. "Then Mercy would have been able to arrive sooner to work alongside the local hospital."

"Ziegler said she would have came to the same conclusion." he returned, letting the fire simmer just briefly. Gabriel pulled away, crossing his arms and broke contact first by screwing his eyes shut and inhale deeply; forcing himself to have a lid on his temper – for it to inevitably pop again, but he didn't care for the moment of right now.

"It's also becoming a matter of principal," Jack finally piped up once more, resuming control of the discussion. "This isn't the first time you've neglected to check in, and there are.. _other_ issues that are becoming apparent to us. We are concerned about how your status as an officer is being used."

"I'm more surprised you're actually noticing something other than yourself, Morrison." scorned the darker skinned man in turn. Any composure he sought to regain was quickly lost whenever the blonde commander dared give his input. His attention swiftly cut across to Ana. "But then again, it was probably Amari, wasn't it?"

"You're getting too close to Agent Oxton." the sniper brusquely presented, definitively, and purposefully.

Gabriel unfurled his arms just so he could raise a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, brows furrowing deeply into a neat, angry caterpillar to convey his agitation. They were completely misinterpreting the somewhat informal relationship he had with the ex-pilot, based purely on side glances and wild speculation. Of course, it was _true,_ in that he was perhaps getting a bit too close, but he would never abuse his position as a superior in the way they were implying and nor did he have to.

"Silly me. I'll make sure not to breathe in her general direction again. Happy?"

"This is serious, Gabriel." huffed Jack. "An offence like this could result in a court martial."

"And I am being _serious._ Unless you give me – and the courts if you really want to take it _there,_ concrete proof of my apparent misconduct instead of these imaginations, then I am going to respond exactly how you sound like to me." he heaved a long, drawn out sigh. "As for the case on Blackwatch, I'll _try_ to keep things more confidential around her, though it'll be pointless."

Ana studied his worn face for the longest time after that comment, lips pursed into a thin line of judgement, before realisation dawned on her and a short, humourless chortle escaped her, earning a confused regard from the man beside her.

" _Ha_ _l hqa_? _**Tracer**_?" bemused she, index finger gracing near the corner of her mouth in almost playful _mischief_ at the discovery.

" _Sí._ " the Blackwatch commander possessed a formidable grasp of knowledge on the language of Arabic, though was more comfortable responding in his native tongue. The word was universal enough to be understandable, at the very least. He did not react to her bait, simply answering it truthfully.

"For God's sake," snapped Morrison suddenly, bringing the two multicultural soldiers to view him. His second in command looked a little more sheepish, whereas Reyes remained slightly amused at his friend's lack of understanding. "From now on, the debriefs are to be conducted entirely in English for the sake of those who are not multilingual."

"It was nothing important." Amari brushed off, surprising Gabriel enough to flash a perked brow in her direction. Clearly, he did not expect her to be on his defence, so soon. "I think we have said all we can, Morrison."

"Yes," he agreed, face softening just a touch, as if exhausted by the end of a tense discussion. "You know I hate having to resort to something like this, Reyes. I hope that McCree has a speedy recovery, in any case. Dismissed."

"You always did hate having to get your hands dirty," the opposing commander muttered under his breath, but still managed to muster up a small nod of respect to both of the officers before slipping out of the conference room.

Immediately, his shoulders drooped and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, grimacing at the sight of himself – there had been no moment to change since arrival, and was still clad in ebony armour, laced with ruby trim. He'll amend that when he got some time for himself. For now, he fished out a phone and hastily typed a message to Lena.

* * *

 _'Meet me in my office, 1h.'_

For what seemed like the umpteenth time that evening, Tracer stared at her phone, at the message she received only ten minutes ago. She fidgeted on the seat of her stool, thumb hovering over the keypad as she repeatedly had to make sure her phone didn't darken to save power, unsure if she should even reply or not.

A pink flush rushed to her cheeks immediately when she saw that the palm of her hand had nudged one of the keys, indicating to Gabriel that she was typing a message. Groaning to herself in embarrassment, she deleted the random letter before believing now that she was forced to say something. Absent mindedly, her mouth chomped onto the straw of her drink – some fruit-based juice carton, leftover from when Pharah was much younger – sipping in determination as slim digits clicked away.

 _'About what, luv? I swear, it wasn't me who stole all the paprika.'_

Pause.

 _'Okay, maybe it was.'_

Her eyes remained glued to the screen as she watched in tenuous intensity the triple dots that blinked on the screen. It went like that for several moments, before disappearing completely, and reappearing once more. Tracer brought her legs up to squeeze them onto the poultry size of the stool so she could rest her chin on her knee, head tilted a little with her phone now lazily resting on the bridge.

There was some stirred movement out of the corner of her eyes, and she peered over her knees to see McCree trying to roll over to his side, yet failed as his limbs were not particularly co-operating in his drug-induced sleep and settled for having his head flop to the side. Lena cracked a grin, trying to contain her giggle when she noticed a bit of drool lining his lower lip and collecting in the corner of his mouth.

The moment that got her to snigger, burying her face against her knees to try and muffle the sound was the proceeding snoring. He was messy awake, and messy asleep, it seemed. Mercy made it explicitly clear that she could stay and watch over Jesse as he recovered so long as she didn't wake or disturb his healing process.

Her phone vibrated, as it was on silent and she reluctantly pulled her gaze away from the man to it.

' _That was you? Guess I owe McCree an apology, then_.' Her smile broadened at reading that. ' _It's about the future._ '

Her heart fluttered like the butterflies in her stomach. The future? She drew her lip in to bite at it uncertainly, unabashed at the display of childish hesitance as the only witness in the room was a sleeping man. Her thumb floated over the message, pulling back so she could re-read it. Did he mean to talk about the future of them? Or perhaps something else?

The side of her head resumed to lay against her knees once more, tapping a very slow message out with a single digit.

 _'Can you get a bit more specific, luv?'_

Waiting.. waiting.. ugh, she hated _waiting._ Ah! Ping.

' _No._ ' She rolled her eyes, easing her feet back to the floor and standing up with a stretch. By the time she finished, Gabriel had already sent another message. ' _For the record, it's been five minutes already.'_

Tracer snickered. The girl had a bit of a problem keeping up with appointments – either she was a few days early, or a few days late. Time tended to get a little skewered when she constantly rewound herself into various points of her own time, and watches and phone clocks tended to roll back with her.

As she typed her response, she leant over McCree and tugged the hospital blanket back up to his chin, tucking a few locks of wild hair behind his ear that had fallen over his eyes. The muscles in his face twitched, but he otherwise stayed asleep.

 _'I haven't lost track, don't worry. Sheesh_!' She spiced it up with a few cheeky emotes, before powering her phone off and shoving it into her back pocket. She might as well go now while her perception of time was still lucid, and Lena was horribly curious as to what he wanted to discuss. Tossing her carton in the trash, she gave a lasting look over to Jesse before stepping out.

* * *

Her knuckles brushed feather-light against the door, pulling back in trepidation as liquid brown hues flickered from the door to her hand. Tracer didn't know why there was a sense of anxiety washing over her like a heat wave, and inwardly scolded herself. Is this what it was going to be like? Doubting every meeting with him because of one silly night? She told herself to think on what Mercy said and her own thoughts.

Shaking her head, a bright, peppy smile captured her lips and she knocked strongly, shoulders back, head up high and power in her stance.

"It's open," the muffled voice from within sounded, still retaining Gabriel's rumbling cadence.

Lena pushed open the door, gaze greeted with the sight of the office. It was.. expectantly bare, with the desk taking up the middle of the room littered with only the necessities of a computer and many files. There was a couple of leather-bound chairs, a few framed portraits of the Blackwatch commander's military accolades and a small shelf tucked in the corner filled with books.

Amusingly, there was also a couch in the office, with unmistakably pillows near the armrest. Clearly someone had fashioned it into a makeshift bed for longer nights.

Gabriel himself seemed to be reclining against the front of the desk, arms folded and attention devoted to her, which was enough for her smile to widen and colour to flood to her cheeks. Nevertheless, she promised herself to stop getting so worked up over the man and sauntered over to the leather chair, her own arms sliding over the back of it and back tilting to casually lean against it.

"Commanders Morrison and Amari didn't chew you out too much, did they?" she broke the settling silence, acutely aware of his eyes roaming just past her shoulder over the curve of her spine before being brought back to her face. If he had been aware of her catching his wandering gaze, then he certainly was not ashamed about it.

"The usual fare. They still remain ignorant and stubborn to anything I say." he grumbled. "Focusing on unimportant shit when the real problem is right under our noses."

The most Lena could do was offer a sympathetic smile. She always felt a tad odd whenever Gabriel began.. for a lack of a better word, _confide_ in her regarding his true feelings towards the commanders, like she was sullying their trust and faith in her. But on the other hand, she saw just how much he needed a good person to just talk to. She heard all the rumours about how angry and hateful he could get, so it made all the moments of quiet respite with him all the more special.

"You know him better than I do, sir." she admitted. "But, well.. consider it this way. You're an unstoppable force, and Morrison's the immovable object."

A second of after-thought. "And Ana is, or supposed to be, the median between you two."

"Lately she's done nothing but back him up. I'm starting to lose my respect for her." scoffed Reyes. A brief spark of anger surged within him simply recalling back to the meeting, but it was easily smothered by the radiant presence of Lena. His voice took on a certain low quality as he moved on, like an inquiring drawl; "But I digress. What do you think of Morrison?"

She blinked, caught off-guard by the question. "Um. Well. He's a good commander, I guess. The right sort of balance between firm and relenting."

Tracer could've sworn she saw displeasure streak past his face. "That's a pretty bare bones opinion. What sort of commander is he for _you_? Do you feel as if he understands your capabilities? Or you as a person?"

When Reyes wanted to discuss the future, talk of Morrison never cropped in her head. She called herself silly for thinking it would be otherwise, and pressed a little bit against the back of the chair as she wiggled her arm free and ran a hand through frazzled locks. The action, though habit for her, was still mesmerizing to watch for him.

"I – I guess he does? I do feel as if he hesitates to order me to the back of enemy lines, but we both understand the danger. He lets me handle the scouting missions as I please, even if he forces me to take a couple of soldiers with me though I'd be better off alone." a pause.

"As for who I am, well – he's a vanilla kind of person. I think he gets a bit freaked out about how cuddly I can get, always muttering about rules and ' _inappropriate workplace behaviour_.'" Lena dragged out a sigh, risking a glance to Gabriel, who was watching her intently. "I think he has the right intentions, at least. He's just looking out for me, y'know?"

"I'm sure he is." he sounded unconvinced. "You know you can be honest with me, _mi amor._ "

"I know." she affirmed. "Truthfully, I want to know why you're so curious about my opinion on Morrison all of a sudden. What happened in the conference room?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," he assured her, then continued. "I was simply gauging your thoughts and feelings about your commander, and if a change would be better suited."

Her mouth popped open in absolute astonishment, realising what direction the conversation was headed, but only managed to mumble out a shocked little; " _S-Sir._.?"

"Lena," Gabriel said, "How would you feel about being transferring to Blackwatch?"

* * *

 _ **Note:** This is a bit where some AU elements come in. From my other story, Gabriel has already proposed this question to Lena, but i've decided to rewrite it a bit so he does it now. Just a note for all of those following this story from the AoO continuity. - Guixi_


	11. Chapter 11

Stunned did not even begin to describe how Lena felt when that bombshell was dropped. Comically, she closed her mouth which had hung open at his question; his intense gaze smouldering at her as it always did, soaking in the theatre show her face was going through and gauging her reaction. The woman blinked a few times, raising a tentative hand to brush through the unruly locks of her hair, trying to form some kind of response.

Unlike the last time she had been brought to speechlessness – receiving that fateful letter from Overwatch – she was not jumping for joy nor screaming in delight. Instead, trepidation set into the muscles of her face and Lena was utterly baffled on how to take the.. well, it _was_ a promotion, she supposed. Covert ops were made up of hand picked agents and soldiers of Gabriel's choosing. He must truly value her skill if he offered in the first place.

"I.. I don't know what to say, Sir." she started with truthfully, leaning up from her casual lounging over the back of the chair, slim digits tapping against the leather in uncertainty. Lena always welcomed change with open arms, but it was practically a whole new lifestyle should she accept becoming an agent of Blackwatch.

"You could say ' _Yes_.'" he supplied cheekily, which broke the mould enough for her to wheeze out an airy chuckle. Gabriel pushed himself off from the desk, pacing a little bit as he spoke, to which she noticed that he was gradually drifting closer to her.

"The use of your powers are horribly mismanaged by Morrison. However," he punctuated his words by taking a purposeful step towards her, hand casually grasping the back of the leather chair where she had been moments ago. Lena held her ground, and although the proximity was enough to get her stomach twisting in anticipation; mind ablaze with sordid thoughts; no indication as such crossed her face.

"Just think of what you would be able to achieve under the proper command. _**My**_ command." Tracer couldn't help but think the way his voice dipped along with the cock of his head added a seductive quality to his already velvety cadence, like he was trying to lure her to agree. Gabriel was a bold, forward man, and he had no qualms reaching up, fingertips gracing her cheek as it cupped nicely against the palm of his hand.

Lena still remained silent, observing him intently. The surge of throw-away desire clutched tight in her chest, but the Blackwatch commander was in for a surprise when he realised she was not a submissive woman. For now, she let him caress her, leaning her cheek flush against his touch, uttering a small sigh as his thumb traced small circles, lids fluttering half closed.

"No rules. No restraint." he added. Gabriel did not lean down to meet her face, no, he urged her up, forcing her to step closer and rise on the tips of her toes as he guided her with his stroking hand. Light liquid brown met coal-black as their gazes connected; only breaking as his wandered down to her lips. "You would only have to answer to _me_."

As he was about to claim them with his own; he was halted by her hand clutching – rather tightly – against his wrist, yanking it free off of her face with little difficulty and falling back to the balls of her feet, face holding cool composure. Reyes made a noise of question in the back of his throat; brows furrowing subconsciously as she held on.

"There's a _lot_ of things we need to talk about before I accept anything." she finally spoke, tone tethering with a bizarre mix of certainty and hesitance. " _Us,_ for a start."

"What is there to discuss?" he sounded a little more terse, perhaps peeved that she had declined his advance. He tugged his hand away from her slim restraining one, letting it return to the refuge of his arms as he folded them.

"Everything. You know I don't want want to break conduct, love. Being in Blackwatch won't change that." mentioned Lena, mimicking his stance and regretfully, reluctantly, stepping away from his overwhelming, engulfing presence. She wished she didn't have to be the voice of reason, as Gabriel was making it – almost purposefully hard – to refuse him; the way he avoided her gaze; muscles in his neck twitching and she wanted to heave a sigh.

"I'm not even sure what I feel." She absolutely did not want to mention McCree, either. The two were polarizing contrasts; Gabriel was like a fiery, explosive passion that happened in the _now,_ in the moment, whereas the younger agent was a slow, build up song, her heart slowly being stolen by the wayward rebel. "I don't want to make things.. awkward or.. or difficult."

His silence was starting to get to her, so Lena returned in front of him, gently straightening out his hooded jacket, trying to tug his firmly crossed arms. He relented, letting her part them and slip into place, nuzzling her head against his chest in a much less passionate, yet affectionate hug. Gabriel grimaced slightly, but ruffled her hair, nevertheless.

"You wouldn't, _mi dulce._ " he muttered, annoyingly keeping his answer from her. "There's more to the offer than that, you know."

"If you didn't try to throw yourself at me as your way of getting me to agree, I wouldn't have focused on it, love." She joked, cracking a huge grin when she managed to get the infallible man to open his mouth in protest; snapping shut in mild dismay, sufficiently chastened as there was little he could say. Lena pulled back from the embrace, content to keep at least one arm around him.

"But.. there's still a lot to consider. I mean.. take in account all those rumours the public spreads about the ' _secret covert ops_.'" she began, "About how you guys – which they mistakenly say is Overwatch – torture captives, or kill innocents, or all the other wild stories."

"That's just what they are, Oxton. Wild stories," Gabriel contested. "Do you really think I would offer you the position if I didn't think you couldn't handle the dirty work people shove off to us? Don't say you haven't got the guts. You signed up to test pilot something that was barely even a prototype."

"Yes," she intoned, free hand resting on the accelerator. "And look where _that_ got me."

He at least had the decency to wince in shame at that. They held vastly conflicting viewpoints when it concerned her accelerator. Lena, though not blind to the benefits vehemently denied that the means to acquire it was justifiable. She hated the thing, and was very much plagued with reoccurring nightmares and hazy visions of her ancestors or even of the future, it was too muted and unclear to tell.

Gabriel on the other hand, firmly believed it was the best thing to happen to her, even if he'd never outright say it like that. He was very well-versed in the side-effects, mainly due to multiple times Tracer had confided to him over it, and didn't find them all that impeding. He tried to be empathic, for _her_ , at least, but was hard pressed to try and feel something he truly didn't.

Lena sighed quietly as silence settled between them once more, her arms drawing away from Gabriel as she fell to recline on the back of the leather chair, gaze completely away from him in thought. She didn't want to deny the offer, nor accept it. As they always do, her hands came to grace through the spikes of her hair and unsettle the already disturbed nest.

"Let's come to a compromise, love." said the girl; shooting Reyes with an imploring look; "I'll join a few missions – test run, as it were. If they go swimmingly, well, I'll stop muckin' around and become official."

If he were less of a man, there would be no room for argument or negotiations, he would have simply filed for the transferred and _made_ her work for him regardless if she liked it or not – but, Reyes was confident he needn't stoop to such an extreme, that she would naturally turn to his side in time. That would be one step closer at beating Morrison at his own game, at the very least.

There was the potential issue of Ana catching on to his plans, of course. She was an astute woman, picking up on the fact he was attempting to recruit Tracer based merely on offhanded comments and controlled reactions. It was impressive, really, but Gabriel hoped she stuck to her code of neutrality and did _not_ get involved.

Thus, he'd remain in Lena's good books, dipping his head. "That's agreeable. Make sure your schedule is cleared – ops can happen at any point, at any time."

Gabriel felt his own mouth twist into a smile as Lena's face lit up like the fourth of July, true joy over his understanding. It was worth it, just for that alone.

It was then (impishly, perhaps) that she stood up on her tip toes, arms curling around his neck, confusing him at the start until he was pleasantly _agitated_ – if such a combination was possible – when she stole a kiss from his chapped lips, and amidst the plushy pillowy texture he growled deep within his throat when her accelerator bored against his chest, denying him any closer contact with her, tempting him with it being so close, yet just out of reach, like the wavering light punch of her perfume.

Lena rolled her tongue over his lower lip in a slow contemplation, letting the tips of her fingers play around his broad shoulders as she was content to let his wandering hands ghost to the small of her back, before lips parted and head tugged back to look him straight in the eye. She hadn't been wholly amused by his display earlier, so she hoped that her bold move made her message a little bit clearer.

She pulled away, and she could've sworn she felt his grip tighten just a tad as she tried to, but ultimately let her go. Tracer grinned, throwing a wink over her shoulder. "'Til the mission then, love."

"Til the mission." Damn him as his curled smirk; entirely unphased.

Lena left, shutting the door behind her and concealing her mouth quickly to muffle the aghast noise that escaped her. What the _hell_ had she just _done_? She was beginning to realise that maybe Mercy had been onto something when she expressed that the pilot should exercise a little more _restraint._

* * *

When Jesse stirred, the first thing he did was immediately screw his eyes shut as the light fixtures overhead shined down upon him like righteous fury, trying to throw his arm over his head to provide shade, only to find it unresponsive and dead. He figured his body was still snoozing by the time he awoke, and wiggled a bit in the bed, only to let out an ungraceful yawn shortly after.

He heard.. beeping – monitors. Right, he was in the medical wing, not some void of unknown that was his dreamscape. That was a good start for the first moments of lucidity since administered the drug. The second thing he noticed was the pungent, sterilized smell of his cubicle. He tried to lift his head off of the pillow, but it felt heavy, and in a split second it was as if tiny little jack hammers were pounding away against his temple.

He squinted in the overly harsh light, finally feeling like the blood was pumping through his body as he pulled his arm up from under the covers, only for it to drop haphazardly against his chest like a dead weight. It took a moment for him to process that the cold against his heated skin was indeed metal, and was attached to his arm.

Scratch that, it _was_ his arm.

He shrieked, writhing on the bed, panicked as a hundred questions flooded his mind, before a singular answer was reached in the form of a reminder. The young man's heart beat rapidly in it's cage, gaze fixated on the sleek chrome prosthetic limb laying over his chest. The pulse bomb.. everything had been pretty hazy after the explosion, but it was slowly filtering back to him. He had no issue recalling details, as proven by even his most drunken state he was still very aware.

The noise he made did attract attention in the form of a very pinched looking Mercy, whom all but sagged in relief when she viewed him. McCree ignored her for the most part, watching the way the individual digits of his hand rose and fell just with a thought. It was surreal and supposedly subconscious but he knew he was doing it. Frankly, it shook him up.

"Goodness, Jesse." the doctor murmured, ever concerned. She marched up to the bed, sitting on the very corner of it as she offered a tired smile towards his nonplussed face. "Are you all right?"

Something snapped in him and he bowed his head deeply, colour flushing nicely against the tan of his skin. "Shoot, darlin' – I didn't mean to startle you. I'm fine, just a little.. dazed."

Mercy nodded; understanding. Pushing herself off of the bed, she rounded to the side of it to pluck the medical records clipped to railing, gaze flicking over it and slipping out a pen that had been nesting neatly in the mass of blonde locks, writing.. something down upon it as she ambled over to check the softly beeping monitors.

"Yes, that is an unfortunate side effect, but you seem to be coming out of it well enough. How are you feeling?"

"Like my head's cracking apart." he admitted, brows furrowing as another surge of pain twisted against his temples. She reacted immediately, rummaging through the cupboards above him to retrieve some painkillers and gathering some water from the dispenser a short way out of his room. He gladly took them off her hands, swallowing the tablets with little difficulty. The effect wasn't instantaneous as he'd liked, but knowing they would work did help a little.

"And?" she pressed.

McCree hesitated. He didn't really want to point out the fact that his _entire left arm_ was made out of metal and he really, unsurprisingly, didn't like that. From his short sleeves, he could see the only thing that was left was the stub of his shoulder, and he bristled. He just felt.. less of a person to have an injury like this. He didn't even know what Gabriel was going to say about it..

"Don't worry about me, darlin'. I'm right as rain." he drawled, the lie coming easily to ex-rebel. He felt a lot more awake than moments before and had no issue sitting up properly, even despite her protest.

"You're asking a doctor not to worry or care?" she rose an inquisitive brow, lips pursed. He chuckled, incredulously, before she heaved a quiet sigh. Angela wasn't going to force the American to divulge into information he wasn't comfortable sharing yet, and hummed in thought.

"When d'ya think I could be outta this place? Got a fierce urge to stretch my legs. Maybe take a shower." He paused, eyes drawn to his new limb rather heatedly. "Does it.. er… _come off_?"

"Ah, yes. I'm making it mandatory for you to attend a course about your prosthetic. You'll be with other amputees and you will learn about everything that is needed to know, like how to keep it clean and functional." she instructed along, unaware of the colour draining out of Jesse's face.

Despite telling himself it wasn't true, McCree felt weaker. Like the glaringly obvious prosthetic made him less of a man than who he was – and he did not want to attend some self-help garbage with other people who would only serve to solidify that fact. With his fleshy hand, he grumbled something under his breathe and rubbed at his eyes, flicking away any excess sleep that had built up. "I'm sorry, Angel, but – I'm not going to attend that."

The Swiss doctor regarded him quietly, a flash of steel streaking past sapphire hues at his stubbornness. "If it's the group course that is the problem then I can always schedule a one-on-one meeting."

Then, softer, she added; "There is no shame in -"

To her surprise, the man cut her off abruptly. "I said _no_ , doc."

The two stared each other down, a silent battle of wits until Mercy conceded with a heavy sigh. McCree could always be a bit of a stubborn patient for her, but she was not going to allow him to skirt past his care because of some reason he kept hidden. There was always a way, and she happened to know just the right Captain to persuade him.

For now, she huffed, backing down. "I hope you know how displeased I am, Jesse. It's going down on your record as missing a mandatory appointment."

Though it looked as if her words had little effect, inwardly he was very quiet – sombre, even. Mercy wasn't the first person he'd disappointed and ruefully he knew it not to be the last. He made no comment, moving to the edge of the bed and standing up in the first time for a few days, gravity pulling down on him and another wash of dizziness tided within, but he steadied himself and gave her a curt nod.

"Join the club." he flippantly replied. Jesse desperately wanted to get out of the clinic. Maybe the bar would be a good first stop, or that aforementioned shower. He'll just figure his prosthetic as he goes along, and maybe pretend he didn't have a fake arm.

It was better than facing his crippling shame.


End file.
